Sic Transit Gloria Mundi
by Scribbles-Dementia
Summary: To be honest, she was just looking for a challenge. And then she heard of the Batman. Too bad someone else already had dibs on him. Joker/OC
1. 0

**A/N: With my computer wiped clean, I'm starting from scratch again. Don't worry; I'm not abandoning any of my previous stories. I just don't have any motivation to work on them now.**

**Been reading some Joker fanfiction lately, which I suppose inspired this. And if any of you out there watch "Leverage", my OFC is loosely based on Parker whom I adore.**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.

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Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"_Thus passes the glory of the world"_

...

By Scribbles-Dementia

...

0

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"The train to Civic City is now leaving platform nine. The train to Civic City is now leaving platform nine."

Gotham City Central Station buzzed with activity; trains coming and going, commuters arriving and departing; everyone was in a rush to get somewhere and no one wanted to give way. Above the bustle of the crowd, the cold, female voice of the automated announcing system coolly directed passengers to their platforms.

"The train from Blüdhaven is now arriving on platform three. The train from Blüdhaven is now arriving on platform three."

Central Station could be called Gotham's melting pot, except there was no attempt at assimilation of any sort. People from varying classes were represented here; from the city's elite to seedy underworld criminals to the homeless beggar digging through trashcans, all going about their own business and conveniently ignoring everyone else.

A red-faced young man in a pressed suit weaved his way through the throng, yelling obscenities into a cell phone held to his ear. Pushing his way past the other people on platform three, knocking more than one child over the head with his bulky briefcase, the man never saw the woman leaning half in and half out of the trash bin. It was rather spectacular really. He barreled into her with enough force to send her heels over head into the bin, which in turn sent that toppling over onto its side, spilling both the woman and its contents across the busy platform. Swearing loudly as a half empty cup of slushie splattered onto his polished shoes, the man rounded on the woman with an ugly look on his face.

It was clear she was homeless, her hair had matted into one thick mess and her coat was threadbare and had a large hole in the right sleeve, right over the elbow. The skirt she was wearing had been patched several times, there were more than a few rips in her stockings, and several of her toes could be seen peeking out from her shoes. And she smelt.

"Fucking hell! Do you know how much these shoes cost!" roared the man, his phone call momentarily forgotten. He drew back his foot, as if to kick the woman, who stared blankly up at him, appeared to realise that their little scene had drawn a crowd, and shook off the slushie instead. Growling, he turned around and stalked away, already resuming his yelling into the cell phone.

"I don't care if you have to – Watch it!"

The young businessman's face was practically purple now. The unfortunate woman who'd bumped into him from behind looked barely out of her teens; the large green eyes that turned up to him were startled and scared. The backpack slung over one shoulder was almost bigger than she was.

"I'm sorry," she squeaked.

He opened his mouth as if to say something, eyes narrowed into slits, seemed to decide that she wasn't worth his time, and continued pushing his way down the platform. The young woman watched as he disappeared into the crowd, almost knocking over a little blonde toddler with his briefcase in the process. He didn't even look back once. And then she smiled a little smile that was much too sweet to be entirely innocent. That had been far too easy.

Pivoting on her heels, turning back the way she had come, the woman allowed the wallet she'd slipped up her sleeve to fall back down into her hand. It was a nice little piece, genuine leather accessorised with gold embellishments on the corners – gaudy but expensive. She didn't bother counting the bills as she withdrew them from the wallet, tossing that and the cards inside into a trash bin. She'd almost reached the spot where the homeless woman was slowly getting to her feet, the crowd around her and the upturned bin considerably thinner now once it was clear that nothing more was going to happen. It was simple enough to slip her hand into the older woman's coat pocket as she brushed past. Besides, the woman looked like she could do with a pleasant surprise and it wasn't like the angry businessman was really going to miss the money.

Pleased with her good deed for the day, the young woman allowed the crowd to carry her towards the exit. She could barely contain her excitement as she stepped out of the station and onto the streets of Gotham; her senses immediately assaulted by the blaring horns of impatient drivers and freshly ground coffee from the café on the street corner. An old newspaper in the gutter – its bold headline reading "I BELIEVE IN HARVEY DENT!" – proclaimed the election of a new district attorney. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear police sirens.

A passing bus drew her attention. Emblazoned on its side was an advertisement for the latest exhibition at the Gotham City Diamond Exchange. The Star of Affera, a rare pink diamond of considerable size, was to be displayed there in two days time.

The woman grinned.

Gotham was everything she had expected it to be – from its people to the city itself. There was only one thing missing.

Shifting her backpack higher up onto her shoulder, she walked to the street curb and flagged down a cab. Directing the cab driver, a loud and rather talkative man of Italian descent, to take her to the Plaza Hotel, she relaxed back into her seat and watched the city flash by her through the window.

There was something about Gotham, something unexplainable, that sent shivers down her spine. Pleasant, tingling shivers that usually only came after she pulled off a particularly difficult job. She missed that feeling. It had all been too easy in Blüdhaven that she might as well have not even bothered.

But Gotham was different. Gotham would give her what she needed, because this city was nothing like Blüdhaven. Whilst they shared a common infestation of mob bosses and other petty, and not-so-petty, criminals, Gotham had something Blüdhaven didn't. It had its very own caped crusader.

She bit down a giggle at the alliteration. Honestly, the thought of a grown man parading around the city dressed as a giant bat was nothing short of hilarious. But if the rumours that had reached her were anything to go by, the Batman was not to be taken lightly.

"Here you are, lady."

Shaken out of her thoughts, the young woman peered out the window and up at the towering building that was the Plaza Hotel. It would do.

"Keep the change," she said with a large smile, handing the cabbie a crumpled fifty-dollar bill.

"Gee, thanks lady!"

She had little trouble getting a suite on one of the higher floors; a friendly smile and a large wad of cash did wonders regardless of what city she was in. Dumping her bag on the bed, she picked up the phone and called the front desk.

First order of business: she needed a map of the city – her belly growled – and a club sandwich.

* * *

Gotham City's Diamond Exchange, located downtown, was a vastly underappreciated architectural wonder. One of the city's oldest standing structures, it had been declared a heritage building almost thirty years ago, due largely in part to some very vigorous campaigning by one Martha Wayne.

During the day, the Diamond Exchange was usually filled with camera toting tourists and members of Gotham's high society. At night silent alarms, pressure sensitive floors, thermal sensors, numerous hidden cameras and at least six security guards and one vicious rottweiler protected the building. It wasn't exactly impenetrable but it did deter many a would-be thief who found bank jobs far easier and less of a hassle.

Leo MacGuffin was one of the security guards on duty that night. Turned down by the academy on the grounds of mental instability – he had some mummy issues – the man had attempted to piece together his law enforcing dreams by applying for a position as a night watchman anywhere he could. Although harmless, Leo took his job very seriously, calling in his position every ten minutes to the guard in the security control room, who was curbing his boredom with a game of online checkers. Finishing his sweep of the showroom in which the Star of Affera would be going on display the very next day, Leo scanned both directions of the hall outside, checked the digital keypad on the wall, and rearmed the sensors inside the room.

"Jefferson? MacGuffin here. Second floor's clean. I'm heading up to third now," he stated duteously into his walkie-talkie.

"Yeah sure. Whatever, Leo," came the none-too-enthusiastic reply.

Nodding even though Jefferson couldn't see him, Leo kept his eyes peeled for any little thing that may be out of place, his right hand hovering over his gun holster, just in case. After all, this was Gotham. Pity he never bothered to look up.

Clinging onto one of the water pipes that ran along the ceiling of the hallway, a dark figure watched the man's retreating back. It waited until he turned the corner before swinging to hang upside-down in front of the security keypad, legs wrapped tightly around the pipe. Judging from its slight frame, it was clear the figure was a female.

Removing a thin screwdriver from up her sleeve, she deftly pried off the pad's faceplate. Holding the tool between her teeth, she withdrew an mp3 player and a series of wires from a zipper pocket in her jacket, hooked that up to the exposed circuit board, replayed the recording she'd made when Leo had rearmed the sensors, and grinned around the screwdriver as the security system disarmed itself. That was the problem with keypads; the dual-tone multi-frequency signalling made breaking in – or out – of places dead easy.

Landing lightly on her feet, she strode confidently into the showroom. Bypassing the numerous display cases with their glittery contents, she made straight for the unassuming door in the far corner of the room. It was, unsurprisingly, locked. But a quick selection of lock picks and eight seconds later, she was through the door and in the anteroom that led to the Exchange's safe.

The safe itself was rather impressive. Made of solid steel, it had three rotary combination locks and she was willing to bet anything that it had a glass relocker at the very least; probably a thermal one too. Maybe even a seismic sensor. Weak point-drilling was out of the question as, even if she got through the hard plates, she would probably trigger the relocker. Hiding a diamond core drill on her person whilst trying to be stealthy was also a bit of a problem. And although she prided herself on holding the fastest record in several less than respectable circles for cracking a safe using only a stethoscope, that method would take far too long and she didn't have the time. Fortunately, she had in her possession a slim, little device an engineering friend had given her several birthdays ago: a variation on an autodialer and the Cygnus, a computer-driven combination lock opening tool.

Mounting the device onto the safe's door near the first dial, she inserted the attached in-ear monitor into her ear and got down to work. It took a long five minutes, by the end of which she was grinning from ear to ear, before the final tumbler fell into place and the door popped open with a soft click. Ripping the safe-cracking instrument off the door and shoving it back into one of her numerous jacket pockets, she hurried into the safe itself, knowing that she was quickly running out of time.

She was running on pure adrenaline now. Barely ten feet in front of her, in a movable, freestanding display case, was a golf ball sized diamond, shining a dazzling pink – the Star of Affera. She made quick work of the case's lock and hesitated for only the briefest second before snatching up the jewel. Considering the fact that the display case sat on wheels, it was unlikely that the stand the diamond had been resting on was pressure sensitive.

Smiling smugly, she relocked both the display case and the safe before dashing silently across the showroom floor. Reaching the still empty hall, she replayed the recorded track, rearming the security system once more. Unplugging her mp3 player and reattaching the keypad's faceplate, she turned around, about to run towards the window at the end of the hall, when a tiny flashing red light caught her eye. Just above her, concealed behind a lighting fixture, was a hidden security camera.

She did not panic. She didn't even appear surprised. Still smiling, she gave the camera a mocking salute before making her way to the window. Gotham's finest sure were in for a surprise in the morning.

This wasn't her first visit to the Diamond Exchange. She had in fact made a little stop here the afternoon before, hacking into that day's security feed which was now running in a loop over the monitors in the control room. The only thing anyone watching would see would be a darkened showroom and Leo making his bi-hourly sweep.

Free soloing down the same way she had come up, she pulled her dark hair free of its severe braid once she reached street level, shaking it loose. Pulling up the hood of her jacket, which she'd tucked into the collar of her shirt before starting the job, she quickly made her way out of the back alley and was just about to cross the street when an idea occurred to her.

Doubling back into the alley, she found a hefty looking half-brick that more than suited her purposes. Walking casually out of the alley, she paused only to send the brick flying into one of the building's first floor windows, before continuing on across the street.

But she didn't go very far.

Stopping once she came to a bus stop, she settled down onto the metal bench and waited, tugging off her gloves and shoving them in the back pocket of her jeans. Less than a minute later, the sound of police sirens reached her ears. In another three minutes, two black and whites and an unmarked car pulled up in front of the Diamond Exchange.

She stayed long enough to see one of the security guards come rushing out of the building, looking very confused. As she continued on down the street, heading towards a busier intersection, she caught sight of a black blur out of the corner of her eyes. Looking back over her shoulder, she thought she could just make out what looked to be a stone gargoyle crouching on the roof of the Diamond Exchange; except there were no other gargoyles up there.

A satisfied grin spread across her face and she pulled her hood lower over her head. So that was the Batman.

With every step she took, she expected to be tackled from behind. But the attack never came. Reaching the intersection, she flagged down a cab and directed it to the Plaza Hotel. Removing a pair of foldable headphones from one of her jacket's inside pockets, she plugged it into her mp3 player; nodding her head in time to the music and lip syncing the lyrics as the distorted power chords of an old school rock band blared into her ears.

* * *

**So what do you guys think? Like it? Hate it?**

**This is my first foray into the Batman verse so any comments, constructive or otherwise, would be much appreciated. Just no senseless flames please. Those will be used to build up my marshmallow-roasting bonfire.**

**I'll try my best to keep my OFC from turning into a Mary Sue; I hate that as much as the next person. And I promise to keep the Joker as true to character as possible, because we all just love that "psychopathic, mass murdering, schizophrenic clown with zero empathy". I know I do.**

**In the next chapter: I reveal the name of our mystery woman! Unlike my other stories, I'm making this one up as I go along so I can't reveal much else. The only thing that's really fleshed out at all is my OC. All I can tell you at this point is that this one is definitely going to have an explosive ending!**

**Much love,**

**Scribbles**


	2. 1

**A/N: I've decided where I'm going with this story. YAY! Ok…this could have gone two ways: re-telling The Dark Knight as is with my OC inserted in it. OR picking up where the movie left off. Guess what I chose.**

**Much thanks goes out to **Galactic Cannibalism** and **Evening Ivory** for reviewing. And thanks to everyone who has added this story to their faves or alert list.**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.**

**Dialogue in the first section taken straight from the movie and its script. With minor additions made. I bow down to the Nolan brothers' ability to write witty dialogue I could never dream of duplicating.

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Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"_Thus passes the glory of the world"_

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By Scribbles-Dementia

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1

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Police cars lined the street outside Gotham National Bank. Blockades had been set up and several officers were attempting to keep the press at bay. Lieutenant James Gordon made his way up the steps of the bank, resolutely ignoring the onslaught of questions hurled at him by reporters. Behind him, the red and blue strobes of the black and whites and the constant flashes of cameras lit up the night.

The interior of Gotham National was a mess. The forensics team had clearly been through the lobby; yellow police tape sectioned off areas and fluorescents on metal stands lit up the marble counters that had already been dusted for prints. CSIs armed with digital cameras snapped away, more an act of going through the motions than any real attempt to gather evidence.

"He can't resist showing us his face," said Ramirez, handing Gordon a manila envelope containing printouts of the stills taken from the surveillance cameras.

They walked past another forensic photographer standing over the body of one of the robbers, still wearing the clown mask that seemed to be some sort of a trademark for all of them. The vault's door was still wide open, not that it mattered as there was nothing left to protect inside the safe, except for the odd bundle of bills scattered here and there.

"What's he hiding under that makeup?" mused Gordon, entering the vault with Ramirez following close behind.

It was evident how much stress the lieutenant was under. From the frustration in his voice to the hunch of his shoulders as he slapped the grainy, blown up photos of their perp down on one of the many metal trucks that were in the safe, everything seemed to scream just how tired the man was. It was also a testament of the city's rising crime rate that he barely showed any surprise upon looking up to see that the Batman had made one of his stealthy appearances.

Sensing someone behind her, Ramirez whirled around to face the masked vigilante, doing a poorer job at hiding her shock. At the nod Gordon gave her, she began to clear the area of eavesdroppers.

"Uh, can we get a minute, people, please!"

Picking up one of the surveillance photos, Gordon held it up to reveal a man with greasy green hair, obviously dyed; with heavy clown make up plastered on his face. He had smeared red lipstick across his mouth, which appeared to be curved in a permanent grin. Whoever he was, he had stared straight at the camera.

"Him again," said Batman in the gravelly voice that had inspired so much fear in the hearts of Gotham's criminals. "Who are the others?"

"Another bunch of small timers," Gordon replied, watching as the Batman approached one of the metal trucks, pulling out a device he'd never seen before, to scan the small stack of cash there.

"Some of the marked bills I gave you."

"My detectives have been making drug buys with them for weeks. This bank was another drop for the mob. That makes five – we've found the bulk of their dirty cash." For the first time that night, Lieutenant Gordon sounded somewhat hopeful.

"Time to move in."

"We'll have to hit all banks simultaneously," Gordon pointed out. "SWAT teams…backup." A thought occurred to him. "What about this…Joker guy?"

"One man or the entire mob? He can wait," reasoned the Batman.

"And the press? They're demanding answers. They want to know if he's responsible for the break-in at Parkhurst Galleries last night. And then there's the theft of the Star of Affera the week before. The guard on duty swore he'd just checked the showroom ten minutes before the alarm went off."

"Not likely," said the Batman dismissively. "Whoever that was left no clues. No, this Joker likes to take the credit for what he does."

Gordon nodded thoughtfully.

"When the new DA hears about this, he'll want in."

Batman fixed his intense gaze on the police officer.

"Do you trust him?"

"Be hard to keep him out," Gordon admitted, turning to bag the marked bills. "I hear he's as stubborn as you are…"

But Batman was already gone. Gordon had been subjected to the Batman's abrupt disappearances enough times not to be offended. As if having been given some sort of cue, Ramirez reappeared at the vault's entrance, peering in curiously to see if Gotham's dark knight was still there.

"How does he do that?" she asked, an amused smile tugging at her lips.

"Practice," came Gordon's straight-faced reply.

"So, we hitting the mob banks?" asked Ramirez, taking the cash filled evidence bag. "I'd love to see the looks on their faces."

"Once I get the go ahead from Dent."

Ramirez nodded, though her mouth was now set in a grim line. Clearly, there was no love lost between the detective and Gotham's newest District Attorney.

"He say anything about The Ghost?"

Gordon doubted Ramirez was referring to Dent now. He arched a skeptical brow.

"The Ghost?"

Ramirez grinned.

"That's what those lot out there are calling our mystery thief. No pictures, no clues. You've got to admit that takes some skill."

"How do you account for the alarms going off then?"

Ramirez shrugged.

"I don't know, lieutenant. If you ask me, it almost seems intentional. Like whoever it is wants us to chase them."

Gordon gave a short laugh that was more like a snort than anything else. Picking up the photos of the Joker, he proceeded to head out of the vault.

"We've got more pressing things to worry about than some ghost, detective."

Ramirez smiled, though there was no humour in it.

"At least we can be grateful that The Ghost isn't leaving behind a trail of bodies like this Joker character."

Gordon paused, fingering the manila envelope in his hands.

"We should be so grateful for small mercies."

* * *

It was quiet by the poolside of the Plaza Hotel. There were the odd guest or two lounging on pool chairs in an attempt to work on their tans in the weak sunlight, and a lone swimmer doing laps. But the rooftop pool was otherwise deserted.

Which appeared to be a common trend amongst every hotel, motel and Holiday Inn in Gotham; the tourists were staying well away. In the past few days, the Joker had undone any progress the city's tourism industry had made in the last six months following the debacle in the Narrows involving the Scarecrow and a man the papers identified as Ra's al Ghul. The hanging of the fake Batman outside City Hall a few days ago had been the last straw. Everyone was getting out of Gotham whilst they could.

In a secluded corner near the Jacuzzi, a young woman clad in an embroidered, long sleeved, lavender caftan of rich Egyptian cotton sat reading a dog-eared copy of Anthony Burgess' 'A Clockwork Orange'; a pair of overly large sunglasses balanced precariously on the end of her nose. On the short wicker table beside her sat a tepid pot of tea, steeped to the point of being almost undrinkable. She was so engrossed in her book, she never saw the pool attendant until he was standing right over her.

"Miss Monroe?"

The woman started at the sudden voice, very nearly dropping her book. Looking up in surprise, she smiled sheepishly.

"Um, yes?"

"A call for you, miss. And would you like a fresh pot of tea?"

"Oh yes please," beamed the woman, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head as she took the cordless phone from the pool attendant. "English Earl Grey. And thank you. Hello?"

"Getting bored of Gotham yet?"

Monroe grinned, sitting up and putting her book down.

"Aiden! How the hell did you get this number?"

Of all the people she had come across in her line of work, Aiden Walker was one of the few Monroe still kept in touch with. An MIT dropout, he was her closest friend and the person responsible for outfitting her with many of the more unconventional tools of her trade. His father had been a grifter, now retired, and so Aiden was more than familiar with the criminal underbelly of big cities. They had at one point attempted to take their relationship to the next level, but discovered that they viewed each other more in the light of brother and sister for anything romantic to work.

"You're seriously going to ask _me_ that question? Dad sends his thanks for the diamond, by the way."

"It's no big deal. I know he and your mum have got an anniversary coming up. Thought he could turn it into a necklace for her or something."

Aiden laughed.

"Yeah right! Can you imagine mum with the Star of Affera around her neck? If she ever finds out where it came from we'd be worse than dead."

Monroe frowned, worrying at her lower lip. She remembered Mrs. Walker and knew Aiden wasn't exaggerating. Having been the daughter of a traffic cop before marrying Aiden's father, Mrs. Walker had been none too thrilled when he finally revealed what he did for a living. She was even less enthusiastic when her son, and only child, started showing signs of a similar disregard for the law.

"How about a thirteenth century music box then?"

The silence on the other end of the line stretched on long enough that Monroe wondered if the connection had died somehow. And then came the crackle of a low, throaty chuckle.

"Don't tell me. You paid a visit to the Parkhurst Galleries?"

"They were having an exhibition on King Louis IX. You know I can't resist the French."

Aiden laughed again, though his humour this time round was short lived as a more sobering thought occurred to him.

"Seriously though, when are you coming back? Gotham's not safe."

Monroe rolled her eyes. She could see the pool attendant returning with her fresh tea and waved him over, smiling when she saw that he had included a platter of cookies on the tray. Leaning back into her pool chair, she stretched lazily, transferring the phone to her other ear.

"You worry too much."

"Damn it, Roe! The freak killed a judge and the commissioner! It made the news here too."

"I know," said Monroe lightly, holding the phone in place with her shoulder as she poured herself a cup of tea. "They're closing down all the major roads tomorrow for the commissioner's funeral."

Aiden sighed. Monroe could just imagine him pinching the bridge of his nose, a habit he tended to fall into when stressed.

"Don't you think enough is enough? There's _no one_ out there better than you at what you do. You don't need this bat guy chasing you to prove that."

"That's not true. Your dad caught me," Monroe pointed out.

"That was six years ago! You were eighteen. And you know the saying; you can't con a con man. That was just stupid, Roe."

"Well, like you said, I was eighteen," Monroe laughed good-naturedly, reaching for a cookie. But for once, Aiden wasn't sharing in her amusement.

"Come back, Roe. I'm sick of having to track you down every time you decide to go off grid. What exactly are you looking for?"

Monroe paused with the cookie she'd been nibbling on halfway to her mouth. If she had to be honest with herself, she wasn't quite sure what she was looking for either. She'd spent years traveling all the way across the country chasing a feeling like a junkie hunting down her next fix. And so far, Gotham was the only city that had kept her satisfied for more than a week.

But Aiden had a point. She could deal with the police and the mob. They didn't worry her. But the man who called himself the Joker; he was a class of criminal she had never encountered before. And considering the fact that'd she spent almost half her life living with criminals, that was saying a lot. There was no competition really. He had no qualms killing people, even the ones who worked for him. She didn't even like having to gas roaches. Where the Joker yearned for chaos, Monroe liked knowing that she could get away with things that no one else could, being practically invisible and untraceable. If she wanted to disappear, she disappeared. In fact, Aiden was the only person she knew with the skills to track her down even if she were in Antarctica. He was also the last person on the planet who would ever betray her.

She must have lost herself in her thoughts for too long for when she finally registered Aiden's voice calling her name, he was starting to sound more than a little worried. She popped the rest of the cookie into her mouth.

"Roe?"

"Listen, Aiden. There's just one more job I want to pull, okay? And then I'll leave Gotham."

Aiden groaned but Monroe could tell he was resigning himself to the fact that she wasn't about to change her mind.

"What can I do?"

A broad grin slowly spread its way across Monroe's face as a plan began to take shape in her head.

"I need blueprints."

* * *

Onlookers lined the sidewalks along Parkside Avenue; respectfully keeping the streets clear for the parade held in memory of Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb. Members of Gotham's police department marched past in dress uniform; bagpipe players playing a mournful dirge. At the head of the procession, Mayor Anthony Garcia and District Attorney Harvey Dent appeared determined to put up a strong front in spite of the threats made against them by the Joker.

But on the other end of the avenue, a young woman armed with a camera and a media ID had found something else of interest. Where everyone around her was focused solely on the parade, she was taking shots of the building across the street.

Often described as "a storehouse of literary treasures", the Morganbilt Library had a reputation, even amongst criminal circles, of being virtually impregnable. Sitting on a substantially large plot of government land, there was little to no cover provided; anyone approaching the building could be seen from any of its numerous windows. Despite several attempts, there had so far not been one successful break-in. Not much was known about the building's security system as any records regarding this were housed within the library itself.

Monroe grinned. She did love a challenge.

Swapping out her 50mm lens for a 300mm telephoto lens, Monroe proceeded to pinpoint potential entry and exit points, humming contentedly to herself as she did so. The blueprints Aiden had sent her the night before had been a patchwork mess of redraft after redraft. It had taken two years for the original architect to come up with the floor plans and in the three to four years it took to actually build the library, those plans had been amended at least seven different times. And, of course, there was no way of verifying which of those plans were accurate. Only a small section of the library was open to the public and in order to gain access to the restricted sections, one needed a signed form from the mayor's office. She had no idea how many security cameras there were, the number of guards on duty were a mystery, and it was uncertain if blind spots even existed within the building. In other words, she would be going in blind.

Monroe was attempting to focus her lens on one of the upstairs windows when the gunshots rang out. Dismissing it as the honour guard's ceremonial three-volley salute, she did not think much of the noise – until the screaming started.

It was instant pandemonium. People around her were running for cover, with no regard of whom they pushed out of their way. It was hard to make head or tail of what was going on as police officers raced in one direction whilst scared citizens ran the other.

Monroe hissed as something heavy struck her elbow, causing her to drop the camera. Swearing viciously, she scrambled for it before panicked feet could knock it out of her reach, earning herself a good kick in the ribs for her troubles. The lens was beyond saving and the LCD screen had spiderwebbed. But that didn't bother Monroe. Removing the camera's memory card, she pocketed it and ditched the digital camera. She knew that with the presence of news crews in the area, no one would question the broken camera.

Another set of gunshots sounded, closer to her now than they were before. Whatever was going on, it was coming her way.

Picking a random direction away from the gunshots, Monroe started running. She needed to get out of the main street, out of the open where she was an easy target, and into an alley where she felt the most comfortable. Alleyways meant backdoors and fire escapes, which in turn meant shelter and access to rooftops.

A sudden blow between her shoulders, probably from someone elbowing their way through the terrified crowd, caused Monroe to wince and stumble forward. Anger flared through her, though she resisted the urge to turn around and sucker punch whoever it was that had struck her. Starting a fistfight that she had slim chances of winning in the middle of Gotham's streets would be a very bad plan.

As with any riotous crowd, fear eventually turns to violence, and Monroe wasn't surprised to see small scuffles breaking out, as people attempted to protect themselves from an enemy no one seemed to be able identify. Keeping her distance from these fights, Monroe sprinted towards an alley she could see up ahead, nestled between two apartment blocks. As much as she thrived on adrenaline, she wasn't about to volunteer to be someone's punching bag.

Monroe took the corner at a fast run – and promptly collided into an unyielding body. The force of the impact was hard enough to knock the breath out of her and it took her a moment to register the firm, almost painful, grip on her upper arms. Whomever it was she had run into had surprisingly quick reflexes.

The stranger was unmistakably male and taller than Monroe was, standing a head above her. He was strong too and Monroe knew he was leaving bruises on her arms. She took in the uniform and medals across the left breast of his coat, inhaling sharply as she recognized the dress uniform of the police department's honour guard. She had seen them marching past her in the parade. Deciding that playing the scared little girl card would be her best bet in this situation, she turned her eyes up to the officer's face, and froze at what she saw there.

Monroe had heard horror stories of mobsters and street gangs inflicting such wounds on victims who'd double-crossed them, but never had she actually seen someone with a Glasgow grin. She wondered at how the man had not bled to death, and then a greasy lock of green hair falling out from under his cap caught her eye. Green hair, permanent grin; there was only one person she knew of who fit that description.

In the few seconds it had taken for her brain to take in everything and piece the pieces together, he had done his own appraisal of her; his eyes drawn curiously down to the media ID badge around her neck. The name emblazoned boldly across the top of the badge read: **Mike Engel, Gotham Cable News Reporter**, with a picture of a middle-aged blonde man below it.

Monroe felt his grip on her arms tighten and a fear she had not felt in years started bubbling up in her chest. Acting on instinct, she took a step back, transferring her weight back as she bent both her legs. She knew he would readjust his grip, thinking she was trying to pull away. As he did so, she pushed off her back leg, bringing her head up to his chin. It was a trick she had learnt as a kid but one that still came in handy. She started running the moment she felt his hands slip from her arms. She knew the only reason a man like him would let go of her was because she had taken him by surprise and she certainly wasn't going to stick around long enough for him to get over it. She'd rather take her chances with the police.

Maniacal laughter followed her as she threw herself back into the chaos he had created.

* * *

Since the shooting at Commissioner Loeb's funeral, things in Gotham had gone from bad to worse. That morning, the city had bowed to the Joker's demands, holding a press conference to reveal the identity of the Batman, who, if the rumours were to be believed, was none other than Gotham's white knight, Harvey Dent. The man had given himself up and was supposed to be transferred from the Major Crimes Unit to central holding that very night.

Monroe had spent much of the evening before debating the wisdom of staying in Gotham just to scratch her itch. She had even gone so far as to check the train schedules out of Central Station. But the little klepto in her refused to be cowed by something as trivial as a mass-murdering clown. Besides, what were the chances that she would run into public enemy number one? Again?

Which was why she now found herself traversing the rooftops of the Narrows. Monroe may have been many things but she wasn't insane enough to walk through the Narrows alone at night. At least, not on street level. An island sitting in the middle of the Gotham River, connected to the city proper by nine drawbridges, it was an area of Gotham considered even seedier than the East End. So much so that even cops dared not venture into the Narrows without at least SWAT backing them up.

The Narrows was an overcrowded neighborhood with dilapidated tenement blocks and crumbling small businesses. The buildings were constructed so close together that it was no great feat jumping the gap that made up the alleyway between each. At some parts, crossing to the next building was simply a matter of a six-foot drop. It was parkour heaven.

Monroe knew she was grinning even as she took on the wall in front of her. Pushing off her right foot for the initial step off, she threw her arms onto the ledge above and hauled herself over, hitting the ground on the other side running. The bruises she had garnered the morning before impeded her movements somewhat, but the adrenaline in her system was blocking out whatever pain she might have felt. She knew she'd pay for it in the morning but at the moment she didn't quite care. Speed vaulting over a ventilation shaft, cringing as the light metal gave way slightly under her, Monroe then dropped down onto the next roof before coming to a stop at the sight that greeted her up ahead.

There was seven feet of empty space between her roof and the next, more than she knew she was capable of jumping. Monroe frowned, calculating the time she would lose if she backtracked to take an alternate route and did not like the numbers she was coming up with. Chewing on her bottom lip, she restlessly cast her eyes around her, searching for a quick solution to the problem she was facing. Her eyes landed on a fire escape ladder.

Racing towards the ladder, Monroe grabbed one of its rails with her left hand and recklessly swung off the roof. Using her momentum to bring her back towards the ladder, she landed in a cat grab and without pausing proceeded to climb down the ladder, landing lightly on the fire escape ledge below. The three foot jump to the fire escape opposite her was much more manageable and without giving it further thought, Monroe took the leap. Unfortunately, her landing on the other side was not quite as soundless and Monroe cringed as the sound of clashing metal echoed through the alley. She was sure she'd attracted some unwanted attention now. She could hear raised voices; angry shouting; and she was poised to make her getaway when she recognized the sound of desperate pleading as well. Whatever was going on, the yelling wasn't directed at her.

There was a couple in the alley below her. The man had the woman backed up against the wall and was yelling obscenities into her face.

"I don't give a shit about your excuses, you useless bitch. You con the john. Not the other way around! Do you know how much money you've lost me?"

"Please, Wes! You know I don't have that kind of money," the woman begged.

"Then you find some way of getting that money! Otherwise…I'll have to pay a visit to little Maggie."

"You stay away from my sister, you fucking ba – "

The sharp sound of flesh striking flesh resonated down the alley. The woman cried out, her hand flying to her cheek. It came away with fresh blood staining her fingers.

Monroe frowned, torn between her desire not to get involved and her anger at the man's treatment of the woman. She knew it was none of her business but she also knew what could happen to the woman in situations like these.

"You have until tomorrow night. Don't make me come after you," the man growled. He had started to walk away when the woman spoke again.

"Please! I need more time!"

The man froze. Monroe tensed, a sense of unease washing over her. She watched as the man turned around and stared down the woman. Even though she couldn't see his face, Monroe knew that his eyes would be cold and hard. The sudden glint of steel in the moonlight caught her attention. The man had drawn a knife. And was now advancing on the woman.

"Maybe I didn't make myself clear…"

Monroe's lips curled in a savage snarl and any hesitancy she had felt previously now disappeared. There was no way she was going to stand by and let the man carve the woman up like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Looking around her for a possible weapon, she noticed that the fire escape ledge below the one she was on had several potted plants standing in a corner. Keeping her eyes on the scene unfolding in the alley, Monroe silently made her way to the bottom ledge and chose a heavy looking pot with some sort of fern growing in it. The man was almost directly below her. If he got any closer to the woman, he would be under the fire escape. Impulsively, Monroe let loose a shrill whistled. As the man looked up in surprise, and just the slightest hint of fear, Monroe dropped the terra cotta pot onto his head. The pot shattered as it struck the man's head and he collapsed in a dead heap. The moment was almost surreal and for a long minute there was absolute silence in the alley.

And then her senses returned to her and Monroe swore quietly. So much for being invisible. Backing away from the edge of the fire escape ledge, Monroe turned to continue her climb up to the roof.

"Wait!"

The woman appeared to have regained her senses as well and was now looking straight up at her. Monroe eyed her warily. For a moment, they simply stared at each other. And then the woman smiled, shakily but gratefully.

"Who are you?"

Monroe blinked. She had definitely not been expecting that. She considered leaving without giving the woman a reply but the small part of her that enjoyed toeing the line between recklessness and plain stupidity reared its ugly little head and planted a cheeky thought in her mind. Her answer was given with a bold grin.

"I'm a cat burglar."

The look on the woman's face was priceless and Monroe resisted the urge to laugh as she climbed up to the roof. Pushing the incident to the back of her mind with a little mental note to avoid Good Samaritan impulses whilst on a job, Monroe navigated the following roofs with relative ease until she reached a squat that at one time been an apartment block with an Irish pub on the ground floor.

Amongst the blueprints of the Morganbilt Library, Aiden had also sent her a copy of an old map detailing hidden tunnels through which slaves had been smuggled north during the Civil War. It included some naturally formed caverns but what interested her was that the map showed one of the tunnels running directly below the library. And the entrance to that particular tunnel lay right beneath her feet.

It was surprising how accurate the map was and Monroe had little trouble gaining entrance to the long abandoned tunnels. She had no idea how long she spent underground with nothing but a pocket flashlight to light her way but she was startling to feel slightly claustrophobic. According to the map, the Morganbilt entrance was the fourth passageway that branched off from the main tunnel but Monroe had long since passed the third and had yet to come across it. Yet her stubbornness kept her trekking onwards. And when she finally found the passageway, she was sure that somewhere a cherubic choir of angels was singing a hallelujah chorus.

Monroe forced herself to stop. She had no idea what to expect when she emerged in the library and in order to accomplish what she had set out to do, she would need all her wits about her. Taking in a few deep breaths, Monroe waited until she felt completely calm before heading down the smaller tunnel that would supposedly bring her to the impenetrable Morganbilt Library.

A thick marble slab on crude rollers awaited her at the end of the passageway and Monroe had to marvel at the ingenuity of whoever had constructed the tunnels. The type of stone used hinted at what she might find on the other side and Monroe couldn't help the smile that twitch at her lips as she rolled the stone door open wide enough to peek through. She was right behind the back wall of a fireplace and from the looks of the room outside, it was a private reading chamber. Shelves of books lined the walls that she could see and there was a table in the center of the room surrounded by matching chairs.

Withdrawing a compact mirror from one of the inner pockets of her jacket, Monroe held it up to the gap to better examine the room beyond. There seemed to be only one door to the room and it did not look like there were any infrared beams that might trip an alarm, or at least she couldn't make out any of the sensors. There was a surveillance camera in one corner but there was also another corner she couldn't see and there was no telling what was hidden there. Altogether, she would be taking a very big risk by entering the room.

But she had come this far and Monroe saw no point in backing down now.

Removing a roll of black electrical tape from her jacket and pulling up her hood, Monroe readied herself by the door, took a few more deep breaths and rolled it open fully. The moment there was enough space for her to squeeze through, Monroe dashed towards the camera she had identified and made quick work of taping up the lens. She immediately turned towards the blind corner then and breathed a sigh of relief at the absence of another camera. Turning her attention to the door, she knew she was grinning again as she worked at it with her lock picks. But this time, instead of unlocking the lock, she was doing a very good job of spoiling it, making it impossible for even a master key to open the door. This way, even if she had triggered an alarm, she would have enough of a head start over the security guards in the library. Once this was done, she stood up and surveyed the room properly.

Bookshelves lined three of the four walls and every single one of them were well stocked with thick tomes. Taking one of the books off the nearest shelf, Monroe almost laughed at the irony when she discovered it was a guide to the criminal and penal laws of Gotham. At least it was a first edition. In fact, the next four books she took down were all first editions and they all covered the same subject.

Monroe hummed a classic rock tune as she emptied an entire bookshelf of its contents. She was really going to enjoy this.

* * *

Monroe woke up late in the afternoon the following day still running high on the rush of the night before. But that didn't last long as news of what had happened whilst she was in the Morganbilt reached her ears. Rachel Dawes, an assistant district attorney and girlfriend of Harvey Dent, was dead. The Joker had blown her sky high. Dent was now in Gotham General Hospital suffering from severe burns.

It did not take long for her to come to the decision that it was definitely past time she got out of Gotham. Shoving only what she brought with her into her backpack, Monroe slipped a slim butterfly knife up her sleeve, unable to shake the feeling that she was going to need it. The thirteenth century music box she had picked up at the Parkhurst Galleries did present a bit of an issue and after some debate, she wrapped it in one of her shirts and nestled it in her backpack among her other clothes. Satisfied that it would more or less be protected from any damage, Monroe did one last inventory of the room, making sure she did not leave anything behind that could be traced back to her. The clothes she had bought whilst in Gotham she bundled into the trash, taking the bag with her as she left the room. This she dropped into the trash bag of a room service trolley on her floor as she walked past it to the elevators.

The concierge at the front desk looked worn and resigned. Monroe could easily guess that she was one of the last few remaining guests and felt a pang of pity for the man, who looked close to sixty years of age. With the amount of business the hotel was losing, it probably wouldn't be long before management would need to cut back on staff. And Monroe knew from having witnessed similar situations that the older staff members were usually the first to go. As she settled her bill, paying the full amount in cash, she took note of his nametag: **Matthew Owens**.

"Thank you for choosing the Plaza Hotel," he said with a tired smile. "And be careful, miss. It's kind of crazy out there."

Monroe returned his smile, leaving him a generous tip. Outside, as she waited for the doorman to flag down a cab for her, Monroe withdrew the music box from her bag. Aiden had always accused her of having a Robin Hood complex and Monroe knew she was doing it again as she contemplated the wisdom of what she was about to do.

A cab pulled up and the doorman moved to open the backdoor for her. Making her decision there and then, Monroe turned to the doorman and held out the music box, still wrapped in her shirt.

"Could you do me a really big favour?" The man looked puzzled but nodded nonetheless. "Could you give this to Mr. Owens at the front desk? Tell him it's up to him what he decides to do with it."

Raising his brows curiously, the doorman took the bundle from her and promised to do as she requested. As the cab weaved back into the traffic on Gotham's streets, Monroe sank back into her seat, sighing as she said a silent farewell to the city.

They were ten minutes into the ride when the cab driver answered a call on his cell phone. Monroe wasn't really paying attention – she had no problem with it as long as he didn't crash – though she did notice that he spent the entire conversation grunting or snorting; in general making noises that essential meant, "yes". The call lasted less than ten seconds, after which he turned on the radio, fiddling with the dials until he came to a station he liked.

"…a world without Batman."

Monroe's head shot up, turning towards the radio so fast she was sure she had whiplash. She had heard the voice only once before, on the news, the day the fake Batman had been hanged from a flagpole at City Hall. But it was so distinctive as to be unmistakable.

"…had a change of heart. I don't want Mr. Reese spoiling everything. But why should _I_ have all the fun? Let's give someone else a chance…" Monroe was staring at the radio as if it were the schizophrenic clown himself. "If Coleman Reese isn't dead in sixty minutes, then I blow up a hospital…"

"Geez," muttered the cabby, with an ugly scowl across his brow. "He sure is one sick freak, ain't he?"

Monroe didn't reply. The cab driver watched her expectantly through his rearview mirror but shrugged when she showed no signs of offering an opinion on the matter.

It was strange really, but off all the things the Joker had done in the week and a half or so she had been in Gotham, Monroe understood this the least. She certainly did not agree with his murdering tendencies, or his penchant for blowing people up, but at least she could wrap her head around possible reasons behind his decision. She got why he would want this Reese person dead but a hospital? It made absolutely no sense to her. What type of person blows up a hospital?

Monroe frowned, realizing she was getting worked up over something she had no control over and really shouldn't even be so affected by. After all, it wasn't like she knew anyone in any of Gotham's hospitals. Yet her reasoning sounded flawed even to herself and it upset her that she was so upset.

In fact, she was so preoccupied with her thoughts that she didn't even notice the cab had turned down a road leading away from Central Station until two traffic junctions later.

"Um…are you sure you're going the right way?" she asked quietly, forcing her voice to remain calm even as she eyed the cabby suspiciously.

"It's a short cut. The other route takes us by the news station and, trust me, you really don't want to be near there right now."

But Monroe had stopped paying attention after "short cut". In her world, those words uttered by a complete stranger usually meant something bad was about to happen. She reached for the door handle and heard a loud click as the car's locks were activated.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the cabby warned.

Monroe glared at the back of his head. But before she could retaliate in any way, they suddenly screeched to a halt at an empty intersection. Monroe launched herself at the rogue cab driver then, pulling at his hair and clawing at his eyes. The squeal of tires alerted her to the arrival of another vehicle and for a fleeting second, Monroe felt a glimmer of hope. Until she saw that the new arrival was a black, unmarked van. In her world, black unmarked vans _definitely_ meant something bad was about to happen.

The car door was yanked open and strong arms reached in, grabbing her by the hair. Monroe dug her nails into the arms of her new assailant but the man acted like he didn't even feel it. There were two more men with him, all of them wearing black ski masks.

Monroe was screaming bloody murder, but if anyone heard, they were deliberately minding their own business. A hand attempted to cover her mouth, earning its owner a hard bite in the process. She may not have ripped off any chunks of flesh, but she had certainly drawn blood. Swearing, the man backhanded her.

One of them was coming towards her now, carefully avoiding her flailing arms and legs and keeping well out of biting distance. The one with a grip on her hair pulled her head back, baring her neck. Monroe snarled dangerously but the man very obviously had experience quelling the struggles of reluctant victims and she soon found that she was unable to move her head from the position he had maneuvered it into.

And then she felt a sharp pinprick, right where her neck joined with her shoulders and her struggles increased. Monroe knew she had just been injected with something, which only served to fuel her rage. But her captors did not seem too bothered by her efforts and Monroe soon realized why. Despite her best efforts to fight off the effects of the shot, she could feel her limbs getting heavier and heavier until she could no longer lift them.

Lifting her easily, the man who had been holding her down threw her rather unceremoniously into the back of the black van. Her head struck the opposite wall of the vehicle side on; doing nothing for the sudden feeling of sleepiness she knew was the result of whatever drug she had been given. Swearing angrily, though the effect was rather ruined by the slur her voice was starting to develop, Monroe glared at the men in the ski masks, fighting desperately to stay awake.

The one she had bitten said something to one of the other men, Monroe's brain too far gone to comprehend his words. She still tried to scowl menacingly though it was a losing battle. And one that she lost completely when the man she had bitten brought his fist down to strike her across the face. Her head snapped back and Monroe promptly slipped into blissful oblivion.

* * *

**Woah…that was long. I'm just really reluctant of splitting this in two so I hope you don't mind. And I hope you forgive the time jumps as well, but this just lets me get on with the story.**

**So Monroe's gotten herself into a little bit of trouble. Next chapter: the identity of Monroe's kidnapper is revealed! It's not who you think it is…**

**The following is general information about certain things mentioned in the chapter so you don't have to read it if you don't want to.**

**There are some places I mentioned in the chapter, and probably will mention in other chapters, that probably won't sound familiar unless you're an avid fan of the Batman comics and cartoons as well. I've taken the liberty of blending it together somewhat though I will always strive for the feel of Nolan's Gotham since that's what inspired me to write this in the first place.**

**I got my hands on the movie script and spent a very enjoyable hour or so going through it to figure out the timeline of the movie. There were some parts that were a little confusing to determine but I've come to the conclusion that everything takes place over the span of 11 days.**

**A Batman canon character is mentioned in this chapter, though not by name. I wonder if you guys can guess who it is? It's probably really obvious.**

**Well, I hope you guys like this chapter. It's highly unlikely the next will be as long.**

**As always, any comments, constructive or otherwise, is always appreciated. I always love to hear your opinions even if it's just to say, "I liked it" or "That totally sucked" (though don't forget to tell me why so I can fix it)**

**Much love, **

**Scribbles**


	3. 2

**A/N: I read a Christopher Nolan interview a while ago where he reassured fans that he wouldn't be bringing the Joker back for the third Batman film because he didn't feel comfortable with getting someone else to play the character. My brother and I have been tossing around ideas of who the next baddie might be. My first guesses were the Riddler and maybe Catwoman. But since writing/researching this story, I've changed my mind…**

**I can't even begin to thank you guys for the reviews on the last chapter. Seriously, if I could, I would tackleglomp all of you!**

**And yes, the mystery cannon character from the last chapter was Selina Kyle! Props to **Galactic Cannibalism** and my anonymous reviewer for spotting it. It's unlikely she'll make another appearance though.**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.

* * *

**

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"_Thus passes the glory of the world"_

...

By Scribbles-Dementia

...

2

* * *

There were very few things that Monroe was truly frightened of. She had learnt at an early age what fear could do to a person and had decided that it wasn't an emotion worth cultivating. It wasn't that she thought herself untouchable or invincible. Monroe simply understood that the more rational and calm she was, the more control she had over a situation.

And so when she woke up tied to a chair with a bright light glaring in her eyes, Monroe did not panic or scream. Aside from the light shining directly on her, the rest of the room she was in was plunged in darkness. Monroe almost rolled her eyes at the cliché. She was still feeling the effects of the drugs that had been forced into her system; her head was pounding and her eyelids felt heavy, and it took a lot of effort for her to focus her mind on assessing her situation.

Her face felt like it was on fire. Monroe was sure the last blow she'd been dealt had fractured her cheekbone. Her shoulders ached from the way they had been twisted behind her back and the ropes around her wrists and ankles itched. It didn't help matters that she was still sore from the bruises she had received on the morning of Commissioner Loeb's funeral. The feeling of cold steel against bare skin alerted her to the fact that she was dressed only in her underwear and the thin camisole she had worn under her long sleeved top. Her only consolation was that it didn't seem like she had been taken advantage of in any way.

The sound of a key turning in a lock caught her attention. Monroe kept still as a door somewhere behind her swung open and footsteps entered the room. Her ears followed the path of the mystery person as he or she walked around her, paused, and retraced their steps back to the door.

"Hey! Go tell the Boss she's awake," a disembodied male voice called out to someone else outside.

Monroe heard the door click close quietly but couldn't tell if the man was still in the room with her. She waited but heard no further footsteps or movement. Testing the strength of her bonds, Monroe found the rope to be thin but strong. Whoever had tied her up must have been a boy scout for the knots were impossible to wiggle out of. All she earned was a nasty rope burn for her troubles.

The door behind her opened again. The footsteps were quieter this time round; more measured, slower, and definitely very predatory. Even without seeing him, Monroe knew this had to be "the Boss". He moved to stand behind the light source; she could feel him staring at her.

"So _this_ is The Ghost."

Monroe hissed as someone turned on the rest of the lights in the room. Squinting, she was able to make out that they were in a storeroom of sorts. Metal shelving stacked with cardboard boxes and cleaning supplies lined the walls. Storage crates filled with miscellaneous items were piled one atop of the other in a rather precarious tower in one corner of the room. Carelessly thrown to one side was what remained of an old vacuum cleaner, and right in the center of the room was a metal table, on top of which was strewn the contents of her backpack and the clothes she had been wearing.

"I thought you'd be…older."

Monroe finally brought her attention to the man standing behind the floor lamp that had been maneuvered to shine in her eyes. She carefully schooled her face to remain neutral despite the shock and confusion she was feeling. The man before her was of a medium build and dressed impeccably in a pinstriped business suit. From the tie he wore, tied in a Half-Windsor knot, to the tip of his highly polished, handcrafted, black John Lobb's, it was clear he came from old money. But his most striking feature was the mask he wore. Carved from a single piece of ebony, it covered his entire face and resembled a gruesome skull.

Refusing to be intimidated, Monroe glowered at the man defiantly, which only caused him to laugh. There was something rather unnerving about hearing muffled laughter coming from behind an expressionless wooden mask. The only signs of life on his face came from the pair of dark eyes that regarded her from behind the mask, and even those were cold and calculating.

Monroe watched as he stepped towards the table, clenching her fists and gritting her teeth as he went through her things. She could feel the telltale tension that started spreading through her shoulders, readying herself to pounce, if only she weren't bound to the chair. The possessiveness she had over her belongings was a byproduct of her childhood and Monroe had the distinct feeling that he was playing on this. She watched as he nonchalantly picked up item after item – her mp3 player, the autodialer Aiden had given her, a screwdriver – tossing them back onto the table after only a cursory glance.

"You're a hard woman to find."

Monroe remained silent.

"The Diamond Exchange, Parkhurst Galleries, the Morganbilt Library; and all without leaving behind a single shred of evidence. No prints or fibers – there was that brief surveillance footage from the Morganbilt before you taped the camera, but even that caught nothing usable. Very impressive."

He stepped out from behind the table, walking around the lamp as he approached her. Monroe could feel the instinctive quickening of her breath and forced herself to keep her breathing even. But in spite of her determination, Monroe couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. She watched as his shoes came to a stop right in front of her and waited for him to speak again. It therefore came as a surprise when his arm snapped out to catch her chin in his hand and forced her to look up at him. Monroe tried to inject as much anger into her glare as possible.

"But that move with the music box…" Monroe twisted her head free. He punctuated his next words with a hard tap of his knuckles against her forehead. "Not. Very. Smart."

At a sharp jerk of his head, a man that had been standing behind Monroe brought forward a foldable chair, setting it up just out of arms reach of her. It seemed that even though she was restrained, they weren't taking any chances that she might attack their boss. The masked man settled himself into the chair with all the elegance of a panther draped across a tree branch. His eyes narrowed behind the mask as he asked his next question.

"Who are you?"

He chuckled when Monroe didn't answer, seemingly amused by her stubbornness. But Monroe could tell from the hard glint in his eyes that the man was anything but. He nodded at the goon who had brought him the chair and Monroe prepared herself for the blow she knew would be coming. Still, it did nothing to lessen the pain that flared up as his fist landed on the side of her face. It took a while for the ringing in her ears to stop and for Monroe to realise that the boss had started speaking once again.

"I ran the name you gave the hotel. No hits. Your prints gave me nothing either. So I'm going to ask you nicely one more time – who are you?"

Monroe smiled darkly, pushing her tongue up against a molar that had loosened in the back of her mouth. She could taste blood.

"Just a girl with talented friends," Monroe replied coolly.

She'd anticipated the next blow and the one after that, mentally retreating to that place where her mind took refuge when her body could no longer bear the pain. Monroe vaguely registered the goon being ordered to stop before her brain shut down completely and she passed out once again.

* * *

Monroe regained consciousness still tied to the chair in the storeroom of wherever it was she was being held in. She felt worse than she had when she'd awoken the first time round and almost wished she were still unconscious.

Fighting against the burning ache of her body that was starting to turn into a worrying numbness and the protests of her hungry belly, Monroe focused on coming up with an escape plan. She wasn't flexible enough to bring her arms up and around her head without dislocating her shoulders, so that was out of the question. There was nothing on her she could use to cut the ropes, and Monroe silently cursed her stupidity for not using her butterfly knife on her attackers when she had the chance. Then again, she never really could think logically in the middle of a fight.

Casting her eyes around the room, Monroe spotted the opening to a ventilation shaft above one of the metal shelves. All she needed was to get free of her bindings and then shimmying through the shaft would be a breeze. She probably wouldn't be able to move as fast as she usually would, but Monroe was confident that once she was inside the ventilation shaft she'd be fine.

Just as she decided to try hobbling closer to the table that held her belongings, the door behind her swung open and her masked kidnapper entered the room, followed closely by the man who had almost beaten her to a pulp. Seating himself in the chair like before, he leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees as he rested his chin against his steepled fingers.

"I apologise for Mr. Bader. He simply doesn't know his own strength some times."

Monroe blinked, trying to keep the disbelief out of her features. She leveled a blank stare at the man seated before her, which was quite an achievement considering one of her eyes had almost swollen shut, and felt a small spark of triumph at the annoyance she saw building in his dark eyes.

"You're a stubborn little thing, aren't you?"

Monroe resisted the urge to grin cheekily. It seemed the man was taking a different tack this time, as he didn't press for her name like she had thought he would.

"I know you can take a hit. Judging from the bruises and scars on your arms and legs, I'd say you're no stranger to pain either. And there's no questioning your obvious talents. So…" Monroe frowned, wondering where the man was going with this. "I have a little proposition for you."

Monroe's face twisted into an ugly scowl, her eyes narrowing derisively.

"No."

She watched as his eyes blackened dangerously.

"I don't think you quite understand the position you're in. _No one_ steals from under me and gets away with it," he growled.

Monroe snorted.

"Since when did I need your permission? That kind of defeats the purpose."

"Since you stepped foot into my city!" roared the man.

Monroe did nothing to stop the smirk from spreading across her lips. She knew she was digging her own grave but the idiotic part of her was enjoying his discomposure too much to stop now.

"Last time I checked, Gotham belonged to the Joker."

He was out of his chair so fast Monroe hardly saw him move. Her head snapped to the side as he backhanded her and she felt the blood draining from her face at the pressure of a gun barrel against her temple.

"A lot can change in one day. And you've been out for almost two. That _freak_," he ground out, "doesn't deserve Gotham."

"And I suppose you do?" retorted Monroe, pleased at how unimpressed she sounded despite the erratic pounding of her heart.

He froze. Monroe held her breath and waited for him to pull the trigger. Instead, he removed the gun, tilting his head ever so slightly as he seemed to regard her in a new light.

"You really have no sense of self-preservation, do you?"

Monroe shivered as he laughed. Her eyes followed him as he returned to his chair, re-holstering his weapon as he collapsed into it with less of his usual grace.

"Mr. Bader, would you kindly bring in our other guest?"

Monroe's brows furrowed in confusion at the unexpected turn of events. She heard the goon leave and realized that for the first time since she'd been brought here, she was alone with the man she'd silently dubbed Creepy Masked Guy. And it was not a comforting thought.

"Usually at this stage, I'd be threatening to permanently disfigure that pretty face of yours," he stated in the same tone of voice as someone discussing the weather. "But somehow I doubt intimidation like that would work on a girl like you." It was hard to tell, but Monroe got the impression that he was smiling behind his mask. "I like that."

Monroe twitched; he was getting decidedly creepier. She was sure the relief that flooded through her at Mr. Bader's return was almost palpable. The goon had with him a prisoner, a blindfolded and gagged older man with a balding head of salt and pepper hair. He had his arms bound behind his back and stumbled a few times as he was pushed towards the boss before finally falling flat on his face in between Monroe and the masked man. Monroe looked from the newcomer to the dead faced goon to the man seated opposite her, unsure of what exactly was going on.

The other "guest" whimpered as Mr. Bader planted his booted foot in the middle of his back, reaching down to remove his blindfold. Regaining his sense of sight did nothing to calm the poor man as he started thrashing wildly, his eyes wide and fearful.

"I believe you've met Mr. Owens."

Monroe couldn't keep the shock off her face at seeing the concierge of the Plaza Hotel staring up at her. Matthew Owens looked like he was about to have a heart attack. He didn't seem to recognize Monroe.

"Please," he begged pitifully.

Ignoring him, Mr. Bader drew his pistol and held it to the back of the older man's head. Owens stilled immediately, his speech reduced to incomprehensible blubbering. Monroe noticed how the goon's lips curled in disgust and jerked forward as he swung his boot into Owens' side.

"Stop it! Leave him alone!"

Creepy Masked Guy was out of his chair again. He unsheathed a serrated hunting knife from a hidden scabbard strapped underneath his right pants leg. Owens started mewling when he lowered himself next to the bound man, grabbed hold of his jaw and brought the tip of the cruel looking blade to rest just on the outside corner of Owens' left eye.

"This is your fault, you know," he pointed out conversationally. "You could have just left Gotham quietly and no one would have been the wiser."

Owens cried out as the knife dug into him; a bubble of blood welling up as the blade broke skin. Monroe lunged forward again, more violently this time, but her bound arms and ankles resulted in her doing more damage to herself than anything else.

"Just what is Mr. Owens to you? A fence?"

The blade dug in deeper. Owens howled frantically. He bucked, attempting to escape the knife and earned himself another kick to the gut, courtesy of Mr. Bader.

"Stop! Let him go!"

"That was careless, using a go-between to get the music box to him," continued the man, as if she hadn't spoken. "And one you didn't even know. Fortunately for _me_, Mr. Hill has a bit of a curious streak."

He dragged the hunting knife down Owens' face, carving a path that stopped just below his ear. The older man screamed, a grating, gut-wrenching cry that had Monroe yelling along with him.

"STOP IT! PLEASE! He's not my fence. He doesn't even know who I am. Just…don't…"

Monroe didn't know when the tears had started falling but she could feel them trailing down her cheeks. She was staring straight into Owens' terrified eyes. But neither of them were really seeing each other.

"Who is he then?" asked her captor, as he twisted the tip of the knife into his prisoner's face, gauging a hole in his flesh. Owens' mouth was still moving, opening and closing like a goldfish's. But no sound came out. He'd screamed himself hoarse and the shock had finally set in.

"He's just the concierge at the Plaza. He's no one."

The man surveyed her through the slits in his wooden mask. Owens didn't even register the removal of the blade or that the man had moved to stand in front of Monroe. His free hand twisted in her hair, pulling her head back as he rested his hunting knife against her face. The hatred in her eyes was unmistakable.

"You don't just give away a priceless thirteenth century artifact to 'no one'. This man means something to you. So why don't you make things easier on the both of you and just tell me."

Monroe's eyes darted to where Owens laid on the floor, a broken mess. Something unreadable flashed across her face.

"Let him go."

He seemed to consider her demand, tapping the flat of his blade against her cheek.

"Tell me what I want to know…and I promise I'll let him go."

Monroe glared at him. She didn't trust the man, but she couldn't see what other options she had.

"He…he reminded me of my dad, all right!"

She saw him blink behind his mask, apparently not having expected that particular answer. And then he laughed, genuinely amused. But it was a heartless sound all the same. He trailed the knife down the side of her face, though not with enough pressure to draw blood.

"You don't belong in Gotham, kid. You're better than most of the cons in this city but you don't have the heart to do what it takes to survive here. It's a pity really."

Monroe hissed as he withdrew the blade, the tip of it just nicking her on the chin. He appeared comfortable enough with the weapon for her to conclude that he'd done it on purpose. Mr. Bader removed his foot from Owens' back as his boss approached him, holding out his hand for the gun.

"What're you…"

He fixed his dark eyes on her, tauntingly.

"You didn't think I was a man of my word now, did you?"

The gunshot seemed to echo endlessly inside the enclosed room. Monroe knew it was ridiculous but her eyes could see nothing but the blinding light of the muzzle's flash. It was like her brain couldn't get past that to register anything else. She didn't even feel it when her kidnapper pistol-whipped her – twice. Mr. Bader, noting her unresponsiveness, spoke up for the first time since she'd been taken.

"You sure we can use her, Boss?"

"The girl broke into the Morganbilt. No one's ever done that before."

"She'll run."

The man shot his number one a look that spoke volumes on what he thought of Bader's intelligence.

"Then you put a bullet in her head."

* * *

The blast of cold water woke Monroe up from the stupor she had fallen into. Someone had aimed a hose at her and was having a ball hammering her into the concrete floor below. Sputtering, Monroe fought against the onslaught and realized that her wrists and ankles were no longer bound.

"Wakey, wakey, Sleeping Beauty."

The hose was turned off and she was pulled to her feet by her arms, her shoulders screaming in protest. Monroe slumped forward and she heard grumbled swearing as the person who was manhandling her was forced to readjust his hold on her. It was testament to her state of mind that she didn't even try to break free. Monroe let him drag her to wherever it was he was taking her without so much as a struggle. She doubted she had the energy to fight him either way.

It wasn't so much Matthew Owens' death that got to her. Monroe had seen more than her fair share of suicides, murders and dead bodies. It was the fact that he _had_ reminded her a lot of her dad. And her dad had meant the world to her. Seeing Owens get shot awakened memories of being sixteen again, of being helpless and weak. She hated feeling weak.

They had reached another room, what looked to be a small office that had been converted into a makeshift bedroom. The man, whom she recognized as the doorman of the Plaza Hotel, pushed her onto the flimsy cot that was the only piece of furniture in the room.

Ned Hill leered down at the woman before him, barely cognizant and dripping wet. He remembered her from her stay at the Plaza, always dressed in brand name clothes that covered her arms and never wearing anything that revealed too much skin above the knees. He could see why she did that. Four ugly looking slashes covered her lower arms and her thighs bore signs of smaller cuts and faded burn marks. Still, despite the bruises covering her face, he recalled the way she had looked without them; a thin face, sharp features, but rather pretty nonetheless. She'd never win any beauty pageants but she was no troll either.

Crouching down next to her, Hill combed her hair out of her face. She didn't even appear to register the act, staring instead at the wall in front of her. He grinned. Running his hand down her neck and over her shoulder, he was in the process of shifting the strap of her camisole down her arm when voices in the corridor outside caught his attention.

"Later," he promised, leaning down to whisper in her ear. She didn't even blink.

Hill got up just as three men walked into the room. He moved to stand by Bader, who had stationed himself dutifully by the open door, as the Boss directed the Doctor to the cot. Matthew Thorne was the go-to surgeon for patients who did not feel like explaining how they received their injuries. He was known for his discretion and generosity when it came to prescribing drugs, as well as for his rates, which were an arm and a leg above what legitimate practices were charging.

Doctor Thorne tutted when he saw the state Monroe was in. He ran expert hands over her body, paying particular attention to her head, shoulders and ribs. His sharp eyes picked up the subtle creasing of her brows when pressure was applied to particular areas, but Monroe was otherwise unresponsive. He took her pulse and temperature, making notes in a yellow pad he kept in his coat pocket. He leaned over her, shining a small torch into her eyes to check pupil dilation, and seemed satisfied at what he saw.

"She'll be fine," he announced, switching the torch off. "A few pulled muscles and bruised ribs, but nothing broken. She'll be in pain though once the shock passes. What this girl needs is some food and rest."

"How long?" asked the masked man.

"At least a full day."

Bader followed the Boss and Doctor Thorne out of the room as the Doctor listed the different painkillers he'd be prescribing for his patient. Hill waited until he could no longer hear them before approaching the cot again. Monroe had barely moved.

Hill ran a hand experimentally down her leg, from thigh to ankle, holding his breath as he waited for a reaction – nothing. Grinning, he moved his hands higher, over her hips and across her flat stomach. He absentmindedly noted that under her thin layer of skin, the young woman was built of solid muscle. His fingers found the edge of her camisole and his grin grew wider. Slowly, he pushed her flimsy top higher and higher, practically panting when he finally saw the swell of the bottom of her breasts.

And then he felt a sharp blow to his temple, the body beneath his hands twisting sharply to the side as he fell off the cot.

Monroe hardly felt the impact of her knee against the man's skull. She knew it should have hurt but for some reason it hadn't. She didn't really care. Her legs were wrapped tightly around him before his addled mind could make sense of what was happening, pinning his arms to his sides. Her left hand grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back as her other hand brandished the pen she'd lifted off the good doctor. Without a hint of hesitation, Monroe brought her arm down, burying the sharp end of the pen in the exposed jugular of the man beneath her.

The henchman's surprised grunt was cut short by the slow applause that came from the still open doorway. Monroe's head shot up, taking in the imposing figure of her masked captor, slightly cast in shadow by the light coming from the hall behind him.

"Bravo, my girl. I knew you had it in you."

Monroe released the man, who fell forward, scampering away from her as he clutched desperately at his bleeding neck.

"I'm not your girl," she spat.

"That's where you're wrong. You don't have much of a choice here. Try to escape and I'll catch you. Then I'll hunt down every single person you've ever loved, and I'll make you watch as I skin them alive. It doesn't matter how 'talented' your friends are; no one stays hidden forever."

Green eyes clashed with black, both with strong personalities battling for dominance. But it was Monroe who eventually turned away. She didn't need to look at him to know he was pleased.

"You work for the Black Mask now. Get used to it."

Monroe gripped the edge of the cot, feeling the rusted metal scrape against her palms. The man she'd stabbed had crawled into a corner, which in the tiny space they were in didn't really make much of a difference. She couldn't keep the contempt out of her expression as he sniveled. Apparently, the Black Mask found him annoying too.

Monroe made no move to stop him as he shot his former henchman in between the eyes. She felt the spray of blood hit her face and scowled, but otherwise found it hard to feel anything for the man who'd felt her up when she'd been dead to the world.

Lowering his gun, the Black Mask turned to Monroe with what she was sure was a smile behind his mask.

"Hungry?"

* * *

**Totally didn't see that coming did ya! Or maybe you did and I'm just utterly predictable.**

**Next chapter: More Joker! And Monroe trying to deal with her new employee status.**

**My reasons for choosing the Black Mask:**

**Honestly, I think he'd be the perfect baddie for the next movie. His origins are interesting without being too far fetched and you just know Christopher Nolan could do wondering things with him. He bloody BLEW UP Arkham at one point and he's the only other villain besides the Joker who has killed a Robin. That in itself is pretty badass if you ask me. Plus I think he's a good foil for the Joker.**

**His "man of my word" line adapted from Catwoman no. 16: http:/ img25 . imageshack . us / img25 / 4751 / scan0053n . jpg**

**See? Perfect foil!**

**And before the diehard Batman fans send me hate mail, I know that my depiction of the Black Mask may differ from how he appears in the comics. That's because I haven't been able to get my hands on a complete comic with him in it and I'm also trying to blend together different aspects of him from the many portrayals by various comic authors. I'll try to keep him as close to character as I possibly can.**

**Random info:**

**Number One's name 'Bader' comes from the name of the actor who voices him in The Batman.**

**I almost put Bane in this but I realized there's no way I could juggle so many baddies in one story (Little Spoiler: because the Black Mask and the Joker aren't the only ones) "The Man Who Broke The Bat" would be another great movie villain. If they don't dumb-ify him.**

**Hope you liked the chapter! Remember to review! I always love hearing from you guys.**

**Much love,**

**Scribbles**


	4. 3

**A/N: ZOMG! Thank you guys so much for reviewing! And I'm glad you guys love my choice of villain.**

Anony**: Sorry I didn't get a chance to reply to your earlier review. Your use of 'Bat-Posse' literally made me laugh out loud. I don't know why but I still grin like an idiot when I think about it. I actually think Christian Bale's version of the Bat wouldn't be able to tolerate an entourage but I guess we'll have to wait until the next movie to see if Robin makes an appearance. Yes, Monroe's employment under the Black Mask will definitely be 'exciting'. She's certainly not going to take things lying down, that's for sure!**

**I'm sorry this took a while. Life caught up with me. To make up for the wait, this chapter's a little longer than usual. Enjoy!**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.

* * *

**

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"_Thus passes the glory of the world"_

...

By Scribbles-Dementia

...

3

* * *

Monroe curled her fingers around the paper cup, trying to absorb as much of its measly warmth as possible. Her hair was still wet from the cold shower she had taken. Not that a warm shower had been an option. The heating didn't work.

She had rubbed her skin raw and it now glowed an angry red. Every shower she'd taken in the last few days had ended in her resembling a tomato. Monroe supposed it was a case of guilt à la Lady Macbeth; she could still feel the spray of the man's blood on her – _out damn spot_. She didn't regret doing what she did, but she couldn't really say she was proud of it either.

It had been four days since she was brought to the rundown building near the river, including the two she spent tied to a chair, and since then she had fallen into an odd sort of routine. A guard would wake her every morning with an assortment of pills that Doctor Thorne had prescribed, watching as she swallowed each of them. Or pretended to – once he was gone, Monroe would stick a finger down her throat and cough all the painkillers back up, hiding them inside her thin mattress through a hole she had torn in one of the seams. It wasn't as if she were a masochist, though Aiden would have begged to differ. She simply hated the heavy headed feeling that accompanied the pills and knew that, considering her situation, she would rather suffer through the pain and have her wits about her. Meals were a meagre affair; she was brought to the building's shabby cafeteria three times a day and left to find her own food, ignoring the inquisitive looks directed towards her by the Black Mask's other goons. Her night time ritual involved her guard standing outside the bathroom whilst she got ready for bed, another round of pills and even more upchucking.

Strangely, aside from the one guard that had been assigned to shadow her wherever she went, the Black Mask had given Monroe a surprising amount of freedom, leaving her to her own devices. Which, unfortunately for her babysitter, meant he got dragged to every nook and cranny in the building that did not require too much extraneous effort to get to. With the exception of the ventilation shafts and several difficult to access electrical ducts, Monroe now had the entire building mapped in her mind.

It wasn't like she had anything better to do. She may have been free to wander the grounds of her prison but she wasn't allowed outside its doors. And there were no other buildings close enough for her to access through the roof.

Coarse laughter drew her attention. Several tables away, some of the Black Mask's men were recounting lewd tales of their sexual conquests, each more outrageous than the last. Monroe rolled her eyes; it didn't matter what city or walk of life they were from, men were all the same. She had noticed though that in the two days since she had been inducted into the Black Mask's exclusive little club, the number of goons in the building had almost tripled. New recruits appeared everyday, most of them young and impressionable. There were the hardened criminals and ex-convicts but there were a disturbing amount of young men too, boys barely out of their teens. They were the ones that were attracted by the thrill of a life of crime, not understanding that in the Boss' eyes, they were every bit as expandable as a piece of used tissue. They were also the ones that were the most curious about her presence in the Black Mask's operations. Whispers of "The Ghost" followed her everywhere she went though none had dared openly approach her yet. It seemed that the story of her stabbing Hill had spread like wildfire through the ranks and the newer henchmen were just a little bit scared of her.

"Boss said you might need these," said a gruff voice.

The man dumped two more rolls of blueprints on the table in front of her with an affronted sniff. He obviously thought the role of messenger pigeon below him. Monroe noted the dirty bandage wrapped around his right hand and shot him a disgustingly pleasant smile. He was the one she had bitten four days ago. Growling, he muttered undecipherable threats beneath his breath as he went to get himself a beer from the fridge. Monroe spread out the new set of blueprints before her, using her paper cup of half-drunk tea to hold down one of the corners. The words "**Elizabeth** **Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane**" was printed in block in the bottom right corner, followed by the signature of the original architect.

"Why can't we just blow the damn thing up?"

Monroe looked up to see her guard reading the blueprints upside-down. She was not quite sure what to make of the man. He had a few prison tattoos, which told her he had done time but, unlike some of the other cons, he treated her civilly, protecting her from the other men as much as making sure she didn't escape. She had to admit he was intimidating, what with the rather deep scar that marred his left cheek and his imposing, muscled figure. Actually, now that she though about it, a lot of the men under the Black Mask's employ, with the exception of the younger wannabes, had some sort of scar or disfiguring feature on their face. Since being assigned to her, the man had only spoken when spoken to and even then his answers were never very informative. In fact, the only things she had learnt from him were that they were in an old factory that had belonged to the Boss' family and that his name was Teddy Selwyn. It was something that he seemed to regret telling her as, much to his chagrin, she kept insisting on calling him by his first name, which really was the furthest thing from threatening.

"Because, _Teddy_," said Monroe, ignoring his glare, "your boss wants it done quietly. A quick in and out with no one the wiser."

"I wouldn't mind a quick in and out," grumbled Teddy, looking over at the other tables with something akin to wistfulness.

Monroe blinked. This was sounding…like a normal conversation. Her lips twitched into a semblance of a smile. Honestly, boys will be boys.

"You poor deprived thing," she teased. "You know you don't have to sit there and watch me. I'm well within your range of vision from any other table in here. The cafeteria's not exactly very big."

"Nuh uh, that ain't gonna work, midget. Do you really think I'd give The Ghost enough space to pull a disappearing act?"

Monroe bit back a laugh, arching an eyebrow at the man seated opposite her. She never did tell the Black Mask her name so everyone now referred to her by the nickname Gotham's papers had given her.

"You do know that I'm not actually a ghost, right Teddy? I can't just vanish into thin air. And I'm not that short."

"Short enough," was all Teddy said, tapping the blueprints with his finger, indicating she should get back to work.

Shaking her head, Monroe returned her attention to Arkham's floor plans. The place was almost as bad as the Morganbilt, with hallways that led nowhere and rooms that appeared to have no entrances. The current asylum was a hodgepodge of several different buildings constructed on top of each other. It would seem that Arkham had been rebuilt several times and each time wings and levels were added with no regard for the previous building's design. The place was a labyrinth that was every bit as twisted as its inhabitants.

Under normal circumstances, Monroe would have been thrilled taking on Arkham. Except this time she wasn't so much breaking in as breaking someone else out. The file the Black Mask had given her listed her target's name as one Jonathan Crane, a psychopharmacologist who, during his stint as a doctor in Arkham, had experimented on his patients, using them as human guinea pigs to refine his fear toxin. Doctor Crane, better known as The Scarecrow, had then released his hallucinogenic toxin in the Narrows, causing mass havoc. There were supposedly some inmates from Arkham who had escaped during the confusion that were still unaccounted for. Monroe suspected that most of them were probably in the very room she was in. She had no idea what the Black Mask wanted with Crane but she was sure she wasn't going to like it either way.

From what Monroe could gather from the blueprints and information that had been given to her, getting into Arkham would be simple enough. It was getting out that was the problem. She needed an authorised security card to open the cells without setting off an alarm, and whilst that would not have normally worried her, she seriously doubted she'd be able to get past the guards on duty with Crane in tow. And it wasn't like she could drag him through the vents either.

Monroe sighed. What she wouldn't give for some decent music. That always did help to clear her mind. But the Black Mask had confiscated all her tools, including her mp3 player. The only things he'd allowed to be returned to her were her clothes. He'd even kept her copy of 'A Clockwork Orange'.

Leaning back in her chair, Monroe stretched her arms above her head, hearing a satisfying pop as she worked out the kinks in her shoulders from having been hunched over the table for the past hour. It did pull at the muscles around her ribs but, in a strange way, the pain helped her relax. Letting her mind wander, her thoughts drifted to Aiden and his family. Aside from one other person, they really were the only people she cared about. The only ones left alive anyway. She needed to contact him as soon as possible to fill him in on her current predicament. Only then would she start thinking about escape. For now, she would simply have to play nice.

* * *

"Those things will kill you one day."

Teddy looked up from his newspaper, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Monroe was watching him from her perch on top of the short cement ledge that ran along the edge of the building. It was meant as a safety precaution but sitting on it as she was, there was really nothing keeping her from a four-storey drop to the street below. Monroe had dragged him out onto the roof of the factory not too long ago, claiming she needed some fresh air after having been cooped up in the cafeteria for so long. Twenty feet above their heads, a now defunct neon sign read: **Janus Cosmetics**.

"Yeah well, I don't plan on living that long anyway," said Teddy dismissively, returning to his paper.

"Considering the company you keep…" Monroe trailed off with a careless shrug. Teddy wasn't paying attention.

The sun was setting. It was a surprisingly beautiful sight in a city like Gotham. For a moment Monroe could pretend she was still by the pool at the Plaza. Moving around so that her legs dangled out into nothingness, she watched as the sky morphed from a vivid red to a brilliant orange to a dazzling pink and finally to the muted blue of dusk.

"Um, not that I care or anything," came Teddy's voice from behind her, "but could you try _not_ to turn yourself into a human pancake before tonight. The Boss would kill me."

"Oh right," snorted Monroe. "Can't ruin your boss' big plans now can I?"

"Why do you keep saying that? You work for him too you know."

Monroe decided not to answer that, choosing instead to get to her feet, noting in amusement how Teddy's eyes followed her every move nervously. She briefly toyed with the idea of falling into a cat grab off the side of the building, just to see his reaction, but knew that she was in no condition to be able to sustain the position, much less perform a muscle up after. Jumping back down onto the roof, she headed back inside, not bothering to check if Teddy was following. She knew he would.

Bader was waiting for her outside the converted office that had become her room, a black bag in his hands. Monroe had a fairly good idea what it contained and made to grab at it. But Bader seemed to have anticipated that, swiftly moving to hold the bag above his head and out of her reach.

"Get changed," he ordered.

Monroe grinded her teeth but entered her room to do as she was told, slamming the door on both Bader and Teddy. Pulling her backpack out from under the cot she slept in, she proceeded to change into the clothes she usually wore when on a job. It felt good slipping into the familiar black jeans and fitted jacket. It was as if her body knew it was getting ready for a big job and the hormones her brain was pumping into her system were doing wonders for her mood. She even had the smallest of smiles on her face when she emerged from her room.

Taking in her appearance, Bader nodded in approval and unzipped the bag. Removing a familiar screwdriver from within its depths, he held it out to her and waited expectantly. Monroe shot him an acerbic look, which did nothing to sway him. It was obvious he did not trust her one bit and wanted to know exactly where she kept every single one of her tools. Snatching the screwdriver out of his hand, she slipped it, sharp end first, up her left sleeve. One by one, Bader returned all her equipment; one by one they disappeared somewhere about her person – up a sleeve, into a pocket, down the top of her socks. Teddy simply watched silently, an expression of disbelief on his face as he realised just how much _stuff_ was hidden on her.

"Do you really need all that?" he finally asked as she shoved a pair of pliers into one of her jacket pockets.

Ignoring him, Monroe held her hand out for the last item in the bag – her butterfly knife. Bader seemed reluctant to hand it over but Monroe pulled the slim weapon firmly out of his grip, defiantly slipping it down her top. She did not have much of a chest to boast of but with how tight the camisole and shirt she was wearing were, in combination with the fit of her jacket, she knew that the blade wasn't about to slide out from its place tucked in the centre of her bra.

"The Boss' waiting downstairs."

And with that Bader walked away, fully expecting Monroe to follow behind him. It occurred to her that now would be a good time to make her getaway, but she wasn't about to risk the Black Mask carrying out his threat. A heavy hand on her shoulder alerted her to the fact that Teddy was still standing beside her.

"Time to get moving, midget."

"I'm moving, I'm moving…_Teddy bear_," Monroe smirked as Teddy winced.

"Downstairs" happened to be the adjoining storage unit where product was kept prior to shipping back when the factory was still in business. Now, it was more of a makeshift garage. The black van that had been used in her kidnapping was parked there, as well as several motorbikes and a sleek looking Maserati GranTurismo, in the Black Mask's signature colour. There were a small group of men gathered around the only vehicle in the place that didn't have a black paintjob.

"A catering truck?"

"Even the crazies need to eat," came a familiar voice from behind her.

Monroe didn't bother turning around but had to wonder how it was that criminal masterminds always seemed to have a knack for sneaking up on people, especially their own henchmen. She had to admit it made for a very impressive entrance.

The men cleared a path for him as the Black Mask walked towards the front of the group where Bader was talking to the man Monroe had bitten. Upon seeing their boss, the man hurried climbed into the driver's seat of the truck whilst Bader confirmed that they were all ready to leave. Monroe frowned, counting the number of goons around her.

"I thought you said you wanted this done quietly with no surveillance footage or alarms. What's the muscle squad for?"

"They're my…insurance policy."

Monroe crossed her arms across her chest in annoyance.

"We're going to get caught."

"Don't worry. They'll be waiting outside. It'll just be you and Mr. Bader inside."

"I hate tagalongs," she growled but knew that there really was no use arguing her case. It wasn't like the Black Mask was going to listen.

Turning her back on him, Monroe pushed past the men and hauled herself into the back of the truck. Bader must have gone up front with the driver as only three of the men climbed in after her. She didn't really recognise any of them but they were all armed to the teeth. It brought an amused smile to her face as she realised just how scared they still were of running into the Batman after dark. There really was no other reason she could see to explain the overkill of firepower needed for a job that was supposed to remain low key.

Monroe plopped herself on top of one of the stainless steel counters that lined the truck as the vehicle rumbled to life, noting that the men were keeping their distance from her, staying close to the truck's back doors instead. Monroe snorted. Did they really think she was going to try jumping out of a moving vehicle? She wasn't _that_ crazy.

The notorious asylum was situated in the middle of the Narrows. Trains into that part of the city had just started running again after services had ceased following the mass breakout six months ago. The last time Monroe had been in that part of the city, she had train surfed into the slums, not wanting to be seen. It seemed so long ago now.

From what she could gather from the snatches of conversation she had overheard during meals, a lot had changed in Gotham since the day she was abducted and forcibly enlisted into the ranks of the Black Mask's henchmen. The Chechen and Sal Maroni were dead. The Joker had tried to blow up two ferries, one filled with civilians and the other with felons that had been convicted by Harvey Dent. But his plan had failed and he had eventually been apprehended by the Batman; leaving a gap in the power hierarchy of Gotham's criminal underground that had been quickly filled by the Black Mask. It was almost hard to believe but Monroe had seen for herself how quickly the Black Mask's operations were expanding and she was sure that had the Joker still been in control of Gotham, the small time cons would be flocking to him instead, out of fear if nothing else.

The truck took a sharp turn just then, sending Monroe flying off her seat and into the refrigerator opposite her. Her arms stopped her from slamming face first into the stainless steel but she could still feel the shock of the impact reverberating through her body. A smothering snicker had her whipping around to glare at the men stationed by the door. They were making such a conscious effort not to look at her that it was painfully obvious that they had seen what had happened. Scowling, Monroe made to push herself off the refrigerator only to catch a glimpse of her reflection on the polished metal.

She looked like she had been run over by a Mack truck. The bruises on her face had turned an ugly purple with undertones of yellow, spreading from above her left eye down to her chin. Her bottom lip was still swollen from where it had split open some time during her beating and the cut the Black Mask had given her on her chin had scabbed over. The rest of her body looked no better. Though the mirrors in the factory's bathrooms were spotted with age from what she could see of herself during her showers she knew her ribs were black and blue from the blows she'd sustained. Her shoulders were still sore from struggling against her bonds but the bruises there were less pronounced. All in all, it was surprising that she had come out of her ordeal without losing a single tooth, though several of them were a bit wobbly.

Monroe locked eyes with her reflection, a slow grin spreading across her face. She looked positively frightful. With the rumours she had heard spreading about her, it was no wonder that the Black Mask's goons were keeping their distance. Even now she could see her three companions shooting her nervous looks. Monroe briefly considered approaching them, just to see what their reactions would be like, but decided that trying to scare a couple of armed men would probably not be her smartest idea.

Ten minutes later, the truck turned down a side street and pulled up behind the infamous Arkham Asylum. The back doors opened to reveal an impassive looking Bader.

"You're up, Ghost."

The men parted for her like the Red Sea, or avoided her like she had the plague, depending on how one looked at it. Monroe didn't really care either way. Let them be scared; at least that way none of them would bother her. She jumped down from the back of the truck and looked up at the building before her.

Tall and imposing with several wings that led off from the main building, Arkham managed to look both sprawling and cramped at the same time. A brick and wrought iron boundary wall surrounded the asylum and Monroe could make out a side gate secured with a heavy looking chain and lock. Calmly, she and Bader walked towards the gate as if they had every right to do so. Though she kept her head down, Monroe did not pull up her hood – that would have looked suspicious and she hadn't taken down the surveillance cameras yet. She had the lock picked in under five seconds and they casually strolled towards a door at the back of the building.

"Here."

Monroe looked down at the earpiece in Bader's outstretched hand. It was one of those tiny devices that fit inside the ear canal.

"Roof," ordered Bader as Monroe inserted the earpiece. With a wordless nod, she broke away from him as he continued towards the door, heading for a sturdy looking pipe that ran all the way up the wall of the asylum. She knew there was no fire escape access on this side of the building. In fact, there was only one fire escape for the entire asylum; the whole place was one huge death trap really. This was the part she was dreading. She would have to free solo up the pipe and with her shoulders still aching, it was going to be a painful climb. But without a security card, cracking the key code to the door would set off an alarm.

Briefly considering removing her gloves for the climb, Monroe quickly dismissed the thought and reached into the chalk bag that hung at her waist. Whilst climbing bare handed would have given her a better grip on the pipe, she wasn't about to risk leaving behind prints. True, she had never climbed this height in gloves before, but how hard could it be? Wedging her hands between the almost nonexistent gap between the metal pipe and the brick wall behind it, Monroe began her ascent.

Her first slip happened ten feet off the ground. Miscalculating the distance to a handhold, Monroe tried to reposition her right leg to give herself more of a reach. But her new foothold wasn't as secure as she had thought and when she tried transferring her weight onto her right leg, she felt her foot slip out beneath her. The only reason she did not fall off the wall completely was due to the fact that both her hands were still gripping the pipe's braces. Her next slip happened when she'd almost reached the roof. Gritting her teeth against the pain radiating from her shoulders, Monroe was trying to keep her mind off the fact that it was getting harder and harder to find a secure grip on the pipe, especially with how sweaty her palms were in her gloves. As she reached for her next handhold, the brace she was balancing on gave way and her feet fell out from underneath her. For a heart stopping moment, Monroe dangled in mid-air, the only thing keeping her from falling over eighty feet being the death grip she had on a higher brace. She could feel the metal beginning to cut into her fingers as below her the broken brace clanged loudly on its impact with the ground.

"What was that?" came Bader's voice in her ear.

"Nothing," grunted Monroe as her feet scrambled for some sort of grip on the brick wall.

"Well hurry up!"

Forcing herself to remain calm, Monroe strung together a few of her choicest curses under her breath, fully knowing that Bader could hear her but not caring. She knew that she would have to muscle her way out of her current situation, pulling herself up to the next brace using her arms. And she would have to do it soon before her hands slipped out of her gloves. Taking a deep breath, Monroe braced herself for the agony she was about to subject on her shoulders.

"You have another five minutes before the guard on duty turns the corner. And I think he'd find a girl hanging off a wall very suspicious."

"Shut. Up," Monroe ground out as she hauled herself high enough for her feet to gain purchase on another one of the pipe's braces. Breathing a little easier, she looked up. Just a little further, she told herself.

"Four minutes fifty seconds, Ghost."

Four minutes fifty seconds to reach the roof, sabotage the surveillance cameras, get her hands on an authorised security card and let Bader in? No problem! Wasn't she the one always complaining to Aiden about the need for more challenging jobs? Even as she scrambled over the ledge of the roof Monroe could feel her entire body shaking, though she wasn't sure if it was due to exhaustion or the fact that she was starting to find this entire endeavour slightly ridiculous. It occurred to her that maybe attempting a job like this after a mere two-day recovery period during which she wasn't even taking her medication might have been overly ambitious.

Her green eyes scanned the roof, quickly locating the access panel she was looking for. Some of the excitement that usually accompanied her lawbreaking returned to her as Monroe covered the distance to the access panel with surprising speed, picking the pitiful lock that secured the panel's cover in less than three seconds. It swung open to reveal a tangle of colourful wires and switches. Removing her mp3 player from one of her pockets, Monroe made sure to wipe it down before stripping down one of the many wires in the exposed panel that controlled the feed from the surveillance cameras and hooked her player up to it. She hadn't had time to do any reconnaissance on Arkham and so her looping trick was out of the question. Considering what they were about to do, Monroe knew there was no chance she'd be coming back to pick up her mp3 player. Scrolling through her library, a twisted smile spread across her face as she found just the video clip she needed. Gravy Train – _perfect_. Putting it on repeat, Monroe pressed play. Arkham's guards sure were in for a pleasant surprise. With that done, she proceeded to reroute the asylum's alarm system, arching a brow when she realised that it was programmed to dial out to both 911 _and_ an unknown blocked number. She had a pretty good idea who the second number belonged to and took extra care to make sure there was no way that particular alarm would be tripped. She was about to let Bader in when an idea hit her; might as well make sure the wing they'd be in was clear of guards. Locating the wires that worked the security system in the building's furthest wing from the one that housed Crane, Monroe tore them free. No audible alarms went off but she knew the guards in asylum's security control room would be alerted. If only Aiden could see her now. She knew he'd be proud of her handiwork, if not her actual illicit activity. And all with just a little under a minute to spare. He had certainly taught her well.

"Open sesame," she whispered with a self-satisfied smirk as she found the wires that controlled the doors on the first floor. Crossing her fingers that none of the cells were situated on that level, she ripped them out of the panel. "You're clear."

Bader's curt affirmation sounded in her ear as well as a rather redundant order to go get Doctor Crane. Monroe didn't bother to look around for the roof access door. The stolen blueprints she'd studied earlier had told her that it was on the roof of the main building; yet another fire safety hazard. Returning to the edge of the roof, Monroe looked down, searching for the open window she had seen on the way up – one storey down and two windows over from the pipe. Taking the door would have been the easier, and safer route, but it also cut through the most populated area of Arkham. This way she was less likely to be seen. And she had to be quick about it before they sent someone up to check on the surveillance cameras' wiring.

Climbing down the pipe, though adrenaline pumping, was easy enough. Crossing the two-foot gap between the pipe and the nearest window was another matter. But controlling her breathing to calm herself down, Monroe managed it without too much trouble and she was soon at the open window. Monroe found herself looking into a neat office furnished with a tidy frosted glass and steel table, a matching bookcase and a very comfortable looking brown couch. She landed silently inside the room, curiously taking in her surroundings. She knew that she had little time to spare but this was the first time she'd been outside the factory and on her own in four days and she was going to make the most of it.

The silver-plated name plaque on the table read: **Dr. Harleen F. Quinzel**. Grinning, Monroe headed straight for the bookcase and started rummaging through its shelves and cupboards. She knew the likelihood of finding the doctor's security access card simply lying around her office were slim to none but there were definitely other little treasures in the room that Monroe could make good use of. She had to stop herself from filching an 1874 first edition 'Grundzüge der physiologischen Psychologie'. She had heard of the book before; knew it was the first textbook of experimental psychology, definitely worth a pretty penny on the black market. But one of the bookcase's drawers yielded a handheld taser, which she promptly pocketed. Knowing she had spent too much time in the office already, Monroe had been heading to the door when something on the doctor's table caught her eye – an electric radio clock. It was a little bulky but Monroe took it with her anyway. Where a cell phone signal was easy enough to trace, specific radio waves were a little harder. Yet she knew could still use it to contact Aiden, once she took it apart.

Monroe made sure to check that the hall was clear before exiting Doctor Quinzel's office. Running Arkham's floor plans through her head, she started for the stairwell at the end of the hallway.

"Ghost! Where the fuck are you?" came Bader's angry hiss through her earpiece.

Monroe rolled her eyes, jumping down the last five steps. As she pushed open the stairwell door that led to the maximum-security ward, she could see the Black Mask's right hand man waiting in front of one of the metal cell doors. Monroe frowned. From what she recalled of her research, that was definitely not Crane's wardroom.

"Where have you been?" Bader barked impatiently.

"You try scaling a seven storey building, disarming the security system and climbing back down ten feet to a window with a ledge barely three inches wide!" scowled Monroe.

That shut the man up though he still looked none-too-pleased at being kept waiting. Monroe jerked her head at the door on the opposite side and other end of the hall they were in.

"Crane's over there."

"I need you to unlock this one first."

Monroe narrowed her eyes.

"Why?"

"None of your business," Bader growled. "You have your orders and I have mine. Now open this door!"

Grabbing her by the collar of her jacket, he shoved her in front of the cell's keypad. Grumbling under her breath and calling Bader every unflattering name she could think of, Monroe pried open the keypad's faceplate and attached her autodialer to the circuit board. With the specially boosted processors Aiden had installed in it, the device systematically sorted through every possible combination of seven digit codes and had it cracked in just over a minute. She heard the bolts in the door slip free from their locked position. Bader pushed past her into the room but not before gruffly reminding her to retrieve Crane from his cell.

Monroe knew it was childish of her to flip him off, especially since he was already inside the cell and couldn't see her. But she did it anyway. Crossing over to the door of the good doctor's wardroom, she repeated the code cracking process and hesitated only a moment before stepping over the threshold into Crane's cell. The walls of the small room were tiled with rectangular tiles that had once been white but were currently in desperate need of a wash. Pushed into one corner was a metal cot with a thin grey mattress and on the other side of the room was an open toilet and tiny basin. Actually, with the exception of the basin and toilet, it sort of reminded Monroe of her room back at the Black Mask's headquarters. Well, Crane should have no problems settling into his new accommodations.

Speaking of the unbalanced doctor, Jonathan Crane was nothing like Monroe had imagined him to be. The file she had been given on him had included a very blurry passport sized photo that did the man no justice. He wasn't a very tall man, but he wasn't short either. Dressed in the red uniform that Monroe supposed all the inmates of Arkham wore, his arms were bound to his sides by a straightjacket. He was a rather lanky looking man and his dark hair obviously was in need of a wash. But his most arresting feature was his eyes, a captivating blue that had her rooted to her spot. His rather full lips were curved slightly in a puzzling smile as he watched her staring at him.

"Jonathan Crane?" Monroe asked unnecessarily.

"Yes?" came the man's composed reply, his electric eyes lighting up with interest. It was decidedly creepy and Monroe resisted the urge to shiver.

"Today's your lucky day, Doc."

She knew better than to release him from his straightjacket. With a firm grip on his arm, Monroe led him out of the room and relocked the door behind her. Crane just watched her with growing curiosity, which she tried to ignore. All Monroe wanted to do was get the hell out of Arkham. The longer they lingered the greater the chances were of them getting caught despite all her precautions. Dragging Crane along behind her, she hurried towards the cell Bader had disappeared into and stuck her head around the door.

"Come o – "

But her words died on her lips as she took in the scene before her. Bader was standing over another straightjacket-ed inmate. And he was beating the crap out of the other man. Only the inmate wasn't begging him to stop or moaning in pain. No, the man was laughing. Now that she thought about it, Monroe realised she had heard the muffled sounds of the one-sided fight even before she had reached the cell, but her brain hadn't connected the pieces together.

"What the hell! You had me crack that lock so you could settle a score?"

Bader looked up, ceasing his pounding of the mystery man long enough to wipe off the sweat on his chin with the back of his hand, leaving a smudge of blood behind instead. Seeing that she had Crane with her, he nodded sharply in approval.

"Get him out of here."

Monroe was torn between doing just that and stopping Bader from doing further damage to the other inmate. Not only was it an unfair fight, but he had also mentioned earlier he was doing this on the Black Mask's orders, and Monroe would just love the opportunity to screw up that bastard's plans, regardless of what they were. True, mystery man probably wasn't innocent here either, but _he_ hadn't abducted her, tied her to a chair for two days and beaten her black and blue. In her books, mystery man was just a victim here. Pulling Crane into the cell, she seated him next to the door, leaning down to hiss at him.

"Don't you dare move." Turning to Bader, who had gone back to raining blows down on the inmate, who strangely sounded like he was still laughing, she grabbed at his shoulder, ducking to avoid the punch he instinctively swung at her head. "He's not worth getting us caught," she spat. "Let's go!"

Bader shook her arm off, glaring darkly at her.

"If you're so worried, why don't you take the doctor over there and wait for me in the truck?"

"Right! Like I'm going to wait patiently for you in that stupid truck while you blow this! I don't think so!"

"You're not here to think! So why don't you do your job, _Ghost_, and get the doctor the hell out of here!" roared Bader.

Monroe knew that Crane had caught the little titbit that Bader had let slip. The way the man had suddenly sat up straighter unnerved her and she wasn't sure she liked him knowing who she was, even if it wasn't her real name. When she later reflected back on what happened next, Monroe suspected that it was the volatile mixture of anger and annoyance she was feeling that made her do what she did.

She was ready for Bader's reaction as she grabbed at his shoulder again. Only this time, instead of giving him the chance to follow through with his punch, her arm shot out and up as his was drawing back for the blow. She felt the crunch of his nose breaking as the heel of her palm slammed into his face. As his head jerked back, she quickly followed through with a closed fist strike of her other hand to his exposed throat. She didn't know, or care, if the hit had been strong enough to crush his trachea. Besides, in that moment, she only had one goal in mind: to take him down. Whipping out the taser she had swiped from Doctor Quinzel's office, she brought that up in one fluid motion to the most sensitive spot on a man's body that she could think of. Monroe watched with a detached sort of fascination as spasms racked Bader's body for a second or two and before he fell flat on his back. It was unlikely that the man was dead, but he was certainly unconscious.

Breathing harshly, it took a while for Monroe to collect herself and for her ears to make out any other sound besides the loud pounding of her heart. It was then that she made out the quiet chuckling. Rounding on Crane, she had fully expected to find him the one responsible for the laughter. But though the man was clearly amused, he was silently observing her with undisguised interest. That left only one other culprit.

Mystery man, as she had previously dubbed him in her mind, was still lying on his side on the floor, his hair long enough that it fell over his face. Knowing that it was probably one of the dumbest things she could do, but reasoning that she was armed with a taser whilst he was restrained in a straightjacket, Monroe moved to help the man into a sitting position. Besides, with how he was wheezing in between chuckles, it looked like he was having trouble breathing lying down.

He was very different from Crane. For one thing, he was considerably taller. And though he was lean, Monroe could tell he had muscles under his skin, which she doubted Crane had. Where the doctor's hair was dark, his was blonde, though it was a shade closer to brown than it was to anything dazzling like gold or platinum. Unlike Crane's hypnotising blue eyes, his were dark. She couldn't tell if they were brown or black but they hid their own secrets and were as dangerous as Crane's. And then her eyes fell on the scars. Monroe didn't know why she hadn't noticed them first. No one else wore a permanent grin like he did. Maybe it was because she had been concentrating on sitting him up and was looking down at him instead of up, like that time in the alley so many days ago. He laughed as she snatched her hand back and unconsciously took a step away from him.

"We meet again…_Mike Engel_. Or is it The Ghost? You look like crap."

Monroe hid her surprise well. He remembered her? Well if the rumours she'd heard were true, he had kidnapped, and in all likelihood murdered, the real Mike Engel, so she supposed he would have recalled the strange woman who'd bumped into him during the chaos of Commissioner Loeb's funeral wearing the reporter's media ID. It occurred to her that though this was the second time she was meeting the infamous Joker face to face, she had never seen him with his trademark makeup on. Not that she wanted to. She needed to stop getting sidetracked and focus on getting out of Arkham _now_. Backing towards Crane, she hauled the doctor up by the collar of his straightjacket and shoved him out the door.

"Love your work!" the Joker called out after her with a disturbing smile as Monroe turned to leave. It was enough to give her pause. "Especially the Morganbilt." He certainly had a distinctive voice, slightly nasally yet deep with clipped consonants. It should have been grating on her ears – aggravating – but it shocked her to realise that she found it rather pleasant to listen to. Oh, she had _definitely_ spent too much time in Arkham. "Loved the irony of the Gotham skyline built out of law books. All it was missing was some flames."

"I'll keep that in mind for next time," said Monroe dryly. "You enjoy your new roommate now."

His laughter followed her out the cell, only slightly muted when she slammed the door on him and relocked it. Turning on her heels, she was immediately met with Crane's scrutinizing gaze.

"What!" Monroe snapped. But that only caused a smile to spread across his lips and his eyes to gleam even more.

"I just thought The Ghost would be – "

"Older. I know," said Monroe, cutting him off as she pushed him down the hallway and towards the stairwell.

"Actually I was going to say I thought you'd be a man," said Crane as he stumbled down the stairs.

"I'd shut up now if I were you, Doc," Monroe warned.

Even with Crane still bound as he was, they made it to the first floor in good time. Stopping as they reached the door that opened into the hall leading to the back door Bader had originally entered by, Monroe used her compact mirror to peer around it, making sure that the hall was clear, and swore. There was an orderly walking towards their exit, which Bader had left open. Normally, she would try to avoid hurting innocent bystanders, but Monroe knew if she didn't do something, the man was going to alert security. Leaving Crane in the stairwell with that threat that she'd carve out his eyes if he so much as moved without her permission, Monroe pulled up her hood and slipped out the door. It was an empty threat, as she knew she'd never be able to carry through with it. But Crane didn't need to know that.

The orderly was a sturdily built man as Monroe assumed most of Arkham's employees needed to be since they were dealing with dangerous criminals like murderers and rapists. From the way his body was leaning towards the door as he neared it, Monroe knew that he hadn't heard her coming up behind him. The man never stood a chance. With her taser in hand, Monroe jumped onto his back and in one smooth move wrapped her other arm around his head. And then she jabbed the taser under his chin. His body reacted much in the same manner Bader's had before collapsing. Fortunately for her, the man fell forwards. Monroe snorted as she reflected on just how brilliantly this job was going. This was the second body she was leaving in her wake – so much for being invisible.

Going back for Crane, they ran out the door and tore across the cemented back lot towards the side gate. The catering truck was parked where they'd left it, with its back doors wide open and the men she'd left behind, now joined by the driver, simply standing around and smoking very conspicuously. At least one of them, she noted, was keeping a wary eye out for them and any possible guards that might be making their rounds outside.

"Those things will kill you one day," she said as she shoved Crane at one of the men. He just barely caught the doctor.

"Where's Bader?" asked the driver.

"Not coming," Monroe tossed over her shoulder as she climbed into the truck. "Get us out of here."

She caught the uneasy looks the men shared but no one questioned her again. One of them helped Crane into the truck as the driver hurried into the front seat. Ten seconds later found them speeding away, joining the rest of the city's late night traffic. While the three hired guns argued with each other about the best way to get Crane out of his straightjacket, Monroe got up to rummage in the numerous stainless steel cupboards and heating compartments, looking for something to eat. It was a catering truck. There had to be food somewhere. She could feel the doctor's eyes on her as he sat patiently whilst the idiots around him tugged at his restraints.

"Come on, come on, come on," Monroe murmured barely audibly. With a frustrated cry, she flung herself on the floor, scowling at the empty refrigerator. What sort of person stole an empty catering truck? They couldn't even back up their cover story if anyone had come out to check on them!

The goons seemed to have given up, apologising to Crane as they assured him that their boss would be able to get him out of the straightjacket once they got back. It had Monroe wondering just what type of straightjackets Arkham used or if the Black Mask's henchmen were as stupid as she thought they were.

"Why don't we ask _The Ghost_ to do it? I'm sure she'd be able to get this thing off of me with no problem at all," came Crane's cool voice.

Monroe shot him the dirtiest look she could muster. She didn't like the way he'd stressed her nickname.

"Don't want to," she said rather petulantly. She knew she sounded like a pouting kid but she didn't care. She was sore, tired and craving something sweet. Helping Crane out of his straightjacket was the furthest thing from her mind.

Thinking he was doing the doctor a favour, one of the goons advised him not to anger her, recounting the story of how she had killed a man called Hill. Monroe assumed that had been the one she'd stabbed with the pen, except in this retelling the Black Mask had found her covered in the man's blood and she'd apparently tore his throat out with her bare teeth. Monroe rolled her eyes. But Crane didn't look the slightest bit afraid of her. They did leave her to her foul mood for the remainder of the drive though and when the truck finally pulled to a stop, and she heard the driver get out, Monroe pushed her way past them to be the first one out the door. The Black Mask was waiting for them. His pleasure at seeing Crane was slightly dulled by a very noticeable absence though.

"Where's Mr. Bader?"

All heads turned towards Monroe.

"He didn't make it," she deadpanned.

The Black Mask's eyes bore into her for a long minute before he shrugged.

"Well that's unfortunate. Mr. Mariano – " The driver's head shot up, a look of apprehension on his face. " – you've just been promoted. Please show Doctor Crane to his new quarters. I'll be there shortly. And get him out of that straightjacket."

Mr. Mariano gave the straightjacket a dubious look but scrambled to do as he was ordered. The other men scattered at a nod from the Black Mask, but when Monroe made to follow them, Teddy stopped her.

"Not so fast, Ghost," said the Black Mask, his voice deceptively pleasant. Teddy refused to meet her eyes as she turned around to face his boss. "Just what happened to Mr. Bader?"

"He got sloppy."

His eyes seemed to glow with amusement. But that was short lived. He must have given Teddy some prearranged signal for the next thing she knew, her overly muscled babysitter had her arms pinned behind her back. The Black Mask reached out to cup her chin, applying enough pressure to make her wince.

"And the Joker?"

Monroe kept stubbornly silent. She was sure he was smiling behind his mask. He brought his face down to hers.

"I think it's time you were properly made part of my crew. Bring her along, Mr. Selwyn."

Monroe was frogmarched through the factory to the same room she had woken up in four days ago. Not much had changed. The metal chair was still there, as was the table and standing floor light. Picking a bag of plastic cable ties off a shelf, the Black Mask removed one and tossed it to Teddy, who caught it with one hand whilst still holding both her arms with his other. It only served to emphasise how much of a physically disadvantage she was at. Forcing her down into the chair, Teddy then tied her arms behind her, his face devoid of all emotion as he did so. Monroe watched as the Black Mask pulled out a wire hanger from one of the many boxes on the shelves and leisurely started to twist the ends free so that it became one long, thin metal rod.

"Would you be so kind as to pull down her hood, Mr. Selwyn? And then go fetch me the blowtorch."

"Sure thing, Boss."

Monroe heard the door click shut behind her, signalling that she was now alone with the Black Mask, who was casually sitting on the end of the metal table, manipulating the wire hanger in his hands.

"It's my fault for giving you so much freedom," he said, not bothering to look up from his work. "It's a shame really. Mr. Bader was one of my more capable men. But I suppose what's done is done."

"I told you," said Monroe as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. "I hate tagalongs."

The Black Mask looked up at that. And then he chuckled darkly.

"Yes, you did." He returned to his metal twisting. "You know, I really like you, Ghost. You're like a breath of fresh air."

"I try," said Monroe sarcastically.

The door opened again and Teddy walked back into her eye line, carrying a portable blowtorch, the type that could usually be found in a professional kitchen. With one last twist, the Black Mask held out the altered wire hanger to Teddy. Monroe's eyes widened as she realised just what he had made.

"I don't expect you'd scream, will you?" asked the Black Mask nonchalantly, as he slowly approached her. But Monroe had her eyes glued on Teddy, who was heating up the makeshift brand. "You're much to pigheaded for that."

Monroe pulled at her binds but there was even less chance of her getting out of the cable tie than there had been of her getting out of the rope the first time round. Glaring daggers at Teddy, who still refused to look at her, Monroe was determined to get through this without so much as a whimper. The Black Mask combed her hair away from her neck, a mockingly gentle gesture, and paused. She knew what he was staring at as soon as his fingers touched her skin. Just below her hairline, on the left side of the back of her neck, were three perfectly circular scars, burn marks really, arranged in a triangular pattern.

"No," he breathed. "You won't scream."

As Teddy switched off the blowtorch, disappearing behind her again, Monroe felt herself tense up. She knew it wouldn't help but she couldn't stop herself. Her body was preparing itself for the pain to come. She felt the heat on the brand long before it touched her skin. When the heated metal made contact with her skin, Monroe sucked in a harsh breath but made no other sound. It felt like the pain would never end, though logically her mind reasoned that it could not have been more than a few seconds at most. And then the brand was pulled away and she could feel someone blowing on the fresh burn.

"That's my girl," the Black Mask drawled.

That did it. Those three words managed to make her snap in a way the branding failed to do. Opening her mouth, Monroe let loose a deafening, bloodcurdling scream that echoed throughout the factory.

On the other side of the factory, free of his straightjacket, Doctor Jonathan Crane lifted his head at the sound of Monroe's scream. As it faded off, his lips curled into an eerie grin.

* * *

Back in her room, Monroe held up her compact to examine her newest wound. A crude skull stared back up at her though the reflection. It would seem that the Black Mask had taken care with it's placement, putting it on the right side of the back of her neck so that it balanced out her pre-existing scars. Swearing loudly, Monroe shut the mirror with a sharp snap. The only good thing to come out of her branding was the fact that the Black Mask had forgotten to take back her tools. Carefully removing each one, she hid them inside her mattress with the painkillers, only leaving out the ones she would need for what she was about to do. It would make sleeping uncomfortable but she had far more important matters to deal with.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor of her tiny room, Monroe laid out the radio clock she had taken from Doctor Quinzel's office before her. With a grim, bitter smile, she picked up her screwdriver and proceeded to take the clock apart.

* * *

**It's done! Finally! This chapter has been sitting on my laptop half finished for a while. But like I said, life caught up with me. Hope the extra length made up for the wait.**

**Not much Joker I know but have patience, Arkham won't hold him for long…**

**There were other things I had meant to say but I've forgotten them. Oh well. Must not have been that important then.**

**Random info:**

**The new Number One's name (ie. the promoted driver) comes from the name of the actor who voices the second Number One in The Batman. (I know…how many Number One's are there?)**

**The full name of Arkham taken from the comics (or rather, Wikipedia)**

**So the absolutely delicious Jonathan Crane is back! And Monroe unwittingly rescued the Joker from Bader. Silly girl.**

**Next chapter: What exactly does the Black Mask want with the Scarecrow? And Monroe's definitely on Batman's radar now!**

**Please do leave a review. I love hearing back from you guys. It always brings a smile to my face :D**

**Much love,**

**Scribbles**


	5. 4

**A/N: Replies to anonymous reviews at the bottom of this chapter**

**Sorry guys! College took over my life; what with it being my final year, trying to finalise my thesis topic, sustaining two separate injuries to my knee and wrist and no break in between terms, somehow this got put on the backburner.**

**EDIT: Wow…it's been ages, as testified by the fact that…I'VE GRADUATED! Heck yeah! -does happy dance- So sorry for the long wait. Hope this makes it up to you.**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.**

* * *

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"_Thus passes the glory of the world"_

...

By Scribbles-Dementia

...

4

* * *

Commissioner James Gordon stood on the roof of Arkham Asylum in the light of the early dawn, looking twenty years older than he actually was. Below him, the last patrol car was pulling out of the wrought iron gates. His own unmarked vehicle sat idling by the building's front entrance, the MCU's newest rookie waiting for him inside; his nerves a jittery mess. Gordon sighed; he was getting too old for this. The Scarecrow had barely been in Arkham for three weeks, they had just put an end to the Joker's reign of terror, and already there was someone else out there he needed to worry about. For he was sure that Crane hadn't planned his escape all on his own. It didn't fit the man's modus operandi.

Not even the police department's best technical analysts could salvage the damage done to Arkham's alarm system. It took them close to two hours before they finally admitted defeat, grudgingly admiring the perp's handiwork. The entire complex would have to be rewired.

_The Ghost_. It was a name Gordon had been hearing more and more often but hadn't given much thought to with the Joker running rampage in Gotham. But the analysts had sworn that the hacking done on the access panel clearly bore The Ghost's signature. They were hoping to get lucky and lift some prints from the mp3 player that had been left behind, but Gordon thought the chances of that happening were slim to none.

The Batman's absence on the scene wasn't helping matters either. As much as the masked crusader was currently a fugitive of the law, Gordon couldn't shake the feeling that Gotham needed her dark knight more than ever. He had hoped that by sending his men away, the Batman would finally come out of hiding. But it had been close to half an hour and still no Batman. The Joker, despite clearly dropping hints that he had information that might help break the case, was no help at all, refusing to talk to anyone but the caped vigilante. And with The Ghost having left two bodies in his wake, Gordon could use all the leads he could get. The man found in the Joker's cell wasn't talking and the orderly that had been attacked was as clueless as a newborn kitten. An attempt to coerce the Joker's cooperation ended with the maiming of one of his detectives. They may have taken away his knives and put him in a straightjacket, but it certainly hadn't crossed anyone's mind to muzzle him.

"Commissioner!" A disembodied voice followed by a short burst of static, issued forth from the radio strapped to his belt. "You might wanna come back to HQ. There's a Doctor Quinzel here. Says Crane was a patient of hers in Arkham."

"Keep her there. I'm heading back in."

Casting one last look around the rooftop, Gordon clipped his radio back onto his belt and made his way back to the ground floor. The young man waiting for him in his car looked no older than twenty-five, fresh out of the academy, and seemed more skittish than a fainting goat. His ashy brown hair stood on end, no doubt from having ran his hand through it numerous times. He noticeably perked up on seeing Gordon walk out the front doors of Arkham, flashing his superior a nervous smile.

"Done?" asked the rookie hopefully. "I guess he didn't show, huh?"

"Would you blame him?" Gordon retorted.

"No. No, I guess not," said the other man sheepishly.

Had Gordon bothered to stop by the maximum-security ward on his way down, he would have spared himself some needless worrying. Ra's al Ghul may have been a terrorist with misguided ideas on achieving justice and balance, but he certainly knew his stuff when it came down to deception and illusion. And whilst Bruce Wayne may have disagreed with his methods, Batman certainly was benefiting from the young billionaire's training whilst with the League of Shadows. Taking advantage of the havoc The Ghost had wreaked on Arkham's security system, and of the asylum's shadowy corridors, he had managed to sneak into the building undetected and was now cracking the lock on the Joker's cell.

"Well, well, well," came the familiar nasally drawl. "You don't write." The last 't' came out as a harsh plosive. "You don't call. But then word gets around that I have the latest goss on the new kid in town and POOF…Here. You. Are." He clicked his tongue against the back of his front teeth.

"The Ghost," growled out the Batman.

"Aren't you going to ask me how I am? It's only polite."

With speed belying his bulk, the Batman had the Joker pinned against the wall. Several tiles cracked on impact, but this show of force only elicited a bubble of delighted laughter from the Joker. There was still blood around his mouth from his earlier attack on the police officer.

"What does he want with Crane?" Batman demanded.

"Who?"

The Joker winced as his head slammed back into the wall.

"_THE GHOST!_"

"Ahhh…" breathed the Joker, a light of recognition flashing briefly in his eyes before being replaced by a bemused look. "I have no idea."

The Joker grunted as the Batman threw him on the floor, following this up with two solid kicks into his side. There wasn't much he could do to protect himself; not that he was trying. As the Batman picked the Joker up by the front of his straightjacket and landed a punch to the side of his head, he couldn't help but remember the last time he 'interrogated' the schizophrenic clown. What had he said? _"You have _nothing_. Nothing to threaten me with. Nothing to do with all your strength"_. And Rachel…The Joker had lied. He killed her.

The Joker found himself pinned again; this time to the hard, filthy floor. He chuckled lowly.

"Now…doesn't this bring back…_memories_?"

The Batman snarled; his lips curling in disgust as the Joker's tongue flicked out to wet his lips. It would be so easy – _so easy_ – to beat him to a pulp. And, he wouldn't lie to himself; it was tempting. With a bark of frustration, and realising that threats weren't about to get him any results, he shoved the Joker away from him and headed towards the door.

"Uh…but if I were to guess..." The Joker wheezed, manoeuvring himself up into a sitting position, "_I'd_ say she's landed herself in a bit of hot water." He dragged out the vowels towards the end of his statement, rolling the last 'r', seeming to relish the words. "Didn't look too hot when I last saw her."

The Batman stared at him uncomprehendingly, fists clenched at his sides. The Joker carried on.

"I suppose you'll – uh – be…off…to rescue her now, right? The big, bad _Bat_." His tongue flicked out again. The taste of his own blood in his mouth distracted him for a moment. "Even when this city's turned its back on you…you _insist_ on playing the saviour! You know…you really – uh – ought to take something for that overdeveloped hero complex you've got. It can't be healthy."

"Who is 'she'?" demanded the Batman, latching onto the information that had stopped him from walking straight out of the cell and ignoring the rest.

The Joker raised his eyebrows, eyes widening in surprise.

"The Ghost, of course!"

And then he frowned.

"Why? Who were _you_ talking about?"

The Joker wasn't surprised to find himself on his back again. Or with the Batman's gauntlet pressed down on his throat cutting off his air supply. In fact, he sort of expected it.

The Batman brought his face closer to the Joker's.

"_**Talk**_."

* * *

Winding the toilet roll around her hand several times, Monroe tore the tissue free and proceeded to wipe the condensation off the bathroom mirror. She wasn't about to touch _that_ with her bare hands. She even had flip-flops on her feet. Honestly, the bathrooms in the Black Mask's hideout should have biohazard signs on the doors. But at least someone had gotten the water heater in the basement up and running again.

The swelling on her lip had gone down and if she squinted the bruises didn't look so bad. The brand on the other hand – no amount of squinting would ever have made that look better. Anger quickly overrode any feeling of nausea she had at seeing the new mark that decorated her body. Showering had hurt, especially when soap had gotten into the wound. But it was a small price to pay…

Monroe looked down at the spread before her, balanced around the edges of the sink: a crumpled plastic bag, a roll of waterproof surgical tape and the circuit board of what had once been an electric clock radio. Teddy had given her the plastic bag and surgical tape to protect her brand – a rather pathetic attempt at an apology – but she had much better uses for them.

It had taken Monroe well into the morning to take apart and reassemble the clock radio into a working transceiver. The thing was a bit of a hack job and could only handle Morse code, but it _worked_ and that was good enough. She had sent off one short message before finally going to bed and another before she got into the shower. Now all she had to do was wait.

The problem was she couldn't hide the transceiver in her room. Monroe had woken up that morning to a loud banging on her room door. Apparently Mariano had remembered that she had been left with her tools overnight and had come to confiscate them again. Fortunately for her, the stress of knowing that he had already screwed up less than a day after being promoted stopped him from having the forethought to conduct a full search of the room. Monroe didn't want to think about what would have happened if he found the makeshift transceiver, or the few tools she'd hidden in her mattress, alongside her stash of painkillers. And her butterfly knife.

Monroe had been in this particular bathroom enough times to have memorised the layout of every inch of the small space. Walking over to the toilet, she proceeded to lift the cover off the tank. Wrapping the transceiver in the plastic bag, Monroe then taped the entire thing to the underside of the porcelain cover using the surgical tape. That done, she held it up and gave it a few good shakes, to ensure that the tape held, before replacing it over the tank. Until she could find a more secure hiding place, the toilet would just have to do. Plus, this way she could check on it everyday without arousing any suspicions.

Teddy was waiting for her outside. Monroe ignored him as he walked her back to her room. But as she stepped through the door, she froze, her face twisting in an ugly scowl. Doctor Jonathan Crane was standing in the middle of her room, taking a peek under her cot. The relief she felt at having already hid the transceiver quickly turned to anger.

"Get. Out!"

Crane smiled as she tossed her dirty clothes and wet towel in a corner and stalked towards him, cutting quite an impressive figure despite being a good deal shorter than he was.

"Now is that any way to treat a visitor?" He cast another look around the room. "Rather sparse isn't it?"

"Yeah, it ain't the Hyatt," growled Monroe. "What do you want?"

Crane's blue eyes bore into hers.

"You're young, bright – obviously more talented than the rest of the goons here – "

"What's your point?" Monroe snapped.

Crane smiled disconcertingly.

"I'm just trying to understand what happened. What turned you into The Ghost?"

Monroe met his gaze unflinchingly. It was hard to tell what was running through her mind. But when she next spoke, it was hard to miss the warning in her voice.

"Don't you psychoanalyse me, Crane."

"I was just – "

"The lady asked you to leave, Doc."

Monroe's head snapped around to glare at Teddy who was still standing by the door. He had his arms crossed over his broad chest and look he sent Crane was anything but friendly. Crane held up his hands in mock surrender.

"All right, all right. I know when I'm not wanted." Crane made to leave. But as he reached the door, he turned back for one last parting shot. "You were in the system weren't you?"

Snatching her pillow off her bed, Monroe threw it at Crane's head. The man barely managed to avoid it, hurriedly making his getaway. Teddy watched her as she dropped heavily onto the cot, looking visibly shaken, and concluded that there must have been some truth in Crane's last statement to cause such a reaction.

"You shouldn't let him get to you," Teddy advised. "So you were a foster kid. So what?"

Monroe did not turn to look at him. Her wet hair hung like a dark curtain in front of her face, which strangely seemed to emphasise the dangerous edge in her voice when she spoke.

"Leave me alone, Teddy. You're the last person I want to talk to right now."

Teddy nodded jerkily, shifted on his feet a bit, and then delivered the message he was supposed to have given her when she finished her shower.

"The Boss wants to see you later."

And then he left.

* * *

The Thomas Wayne Foundation had been established when the man was still living, dedicated to both medical help and research. In addition to handing out annual awards for medical breakthroughs, the foundation was responsible for the funding of the Thomas Wayne Memorial Clinic in Park Row, as well as other free clinics throughout the city. It had its headquarters in the Wayne Foundation Building, which also housed the philanthropic Martha Wayne Foundation. Each had its own board of directors and various departments. But the one thing both foundations had in common was Lydia Godewill.

Lydia Godewill was the woman-in-charge when it came to the financial power behind the entire Wayne Foundation. She had started out working for Martha Wayne as a secretary in her foundation's free education department and slowly rose within the ranks to the position she currently held. Fortunately for Wayne Enterprises, the woman did not have a greedy bone in her body. She was, however, rather creative when it came to organising fundraising events for both foundations; which was the reason why Gotham City's crème de la crème were gathered in the Wayne Foundation Building that night.

With the Scarecrow's escape from Arkham the night before, the building's security detail had been increased threefold. But that did not deter Gotham's elite from parading their wealth at the Wayne Foundation Masquerade Ball to raise funds for that year's medical research budget.

"Are you ready?"

Monroe dragged her eyes away from the scene of glitz and glamour outside the limousine to face her 'date'. The Black Mask had certainly picked the perfect night to rob the Wayne Foundation Building or, more specifically, its research lab. With everyone else wearing a mask in accordance to the night's masquerade theme, his would simply blend in with the rest of the crowd. And she had to admit that he did seem to fit in with Gotham's rich and infamous. The man had the same air of cultured arrogance and there was no denying that the price of his custom suit alone could feed a small village for at least half a year. Not for the first time, Monroe wondered who exactly was behind the ebony mask. No amount of monetary wealth could hide the spark of cruelty in his eyes though.

Monroe shivered.

The gown she was wearing left little to the imagination. Made out of some sort of steel grey diaphanous material, with a lining that matched her skin tone, it clung to and accentuated what little curves she had. The only thing Monroe liked about the dress was that it managed to, somehow, hide all her scars and bruises. The top half, with its high neck and long sleeves, was designed like a bandage dress before it flared out at her hips. The skirt of the dress had a slit up the left side, which stopped three inches above her knee, just short of revealing any marks that were too alarming. Unlike the Black Mask's striking full-faced mask, hers followed the more traditional Venetian half mask design. Constructed out of black lace, piping and sequins, it had a whimsical flower over her right ear that trailed ribbons of lace and satin. Most of the bruises on her face were hidden under a layer of makeup that was thick enough to mask the discolouration of her skin yet still seem natural. Her hair had been piled onto the top of her head in an artfully messy design that gave the illusion that her unruly locks may come cascading down her back with the removal of a single hairpin. The fact that Teddy had been the creative genius behind the deceptively simple hairdo still unnerved Monroe. The burly man had muttered something about having an older sister when she had asked him where his knowledge of female hairstyles came from.

"I would feel better if I had more than my knife with me," said Monroe, looking out the darkened limousine window again.

Monroe could almost _feel_ her 'date' smiling patronisingly behind his mask.

"You're _The_ Ghost. You'll figure something out. Now, come on."

Monroe shot a quick glance towards the front of the limousine but Mariano had not moved from behind the wheel and was resolutely looking anywhere but into the back of the vehicle. She gave a decidedly unladylike snort. He was definitely not going to come to her aid any time soon.

Placing her hand into the Black Mask's, Monroe allowed him to help her out of the limousine. They were immediately assaulted with flashing light bulbs and smiling faces. The Black Mask's grip on her arm tightened.

"Over here! Over here!"

"Miss! Could you turn this way, Miss!"

"Cool mask, sir. Where did you get it?"

"Your invitation, please?"

This last came from the penguin-suited man at the door with an earpiece in his ear and a checklist in his hand. Without missing a beat, the Black Mask withdrew a gilded invitation card from an inner pocket in his suit jacket and handed it to the man.

"Very good, Mr. Sionis," said the man with a smile that was eager to please. "Have a pleasant evening."

"Where did you steal that from?" muttered Monroe as they entered the marble lobby of the Wayne Foundation Building.

"What makes you think I had to steal an invitation?" asked the Black Mask, as he smoothly relieved a passing waiter of two champagne glasses. He handed one to Monroe. "Focus on the job."

Monroe took a cautious sip of her champagne. They were there because the Thomas Wayne Foundation's Research and Development Laboratories had recently received a shipment of Blue-ringed Octopus venom. It was one of the deadliest poisons on earth with no known anti-venom; something that the foundation was trying to rectify.

"Bruce! Is that you?"

Monroe felt the Black Mask stiffen beside her. But he quickly composed himself and turned to greet the newcomer.

"Actually, it's Roman Sionis. Hello, Mrs. Garcia."

An elegant Hispanic woman in a delicate mask that just covered one eye, Mrs. Garcia, wife of Mayor Anthony Garcia, looked to be in her forties. Her eyes widened significantly at the sight of his mask, but then his name finally registered and the look of shock was replaced by a warm smile.

"Roman? Is that really you behind that thing? I'm so glad you came! No one's seen you since…well, don't want to go dragging up the past."

Monroe couldn't have disagreed more. She was learning more this evening than she had ever gleaned from the five days living in the Black Mask's headquarters.

"Sorry for the mistake, Roman," Mrs. Garcia continued. "But you know Bruce. Always making the dramatic entrance. So when I saw you with this lovely lady here, I thought – and you know, you and he do look quite alike – "

"So I've been told," said the Black Mask coolly. But Mrs. Garcia didn't seem to register his change of tone. Instead she turned to Monroe, a curious gleam in her eye.

"I'm sorry! You must think I'm so rude. Rita Garcia. And you are?"

Monroe blinked at the torrent of information that flowed unchecked from the woman's mouth. Here was a woman who meant well but who could easily be manipulated. Monroe returned her smile.

"Jane Parker." She shook the woman's hand. "Not as exotic a name as Roman or Rita, but oh well…" Monroe shrugged carelessly and watched as Mrs. Garcia immediately scrambled to reassure her.

"Oh no, dear. Jane is a beautiful name. A classic."

"You're too kind, Mrs. Garcia. By the way, Roman never told me how you two know each other."

Monroe ignored the warning pressure on her arm as the Black Mask tightened his grip on her.

"Oh, I knew his parents, dear. Of course, I was only a young girl then, not much older than yourself, but the Waynes and Sionis' were good family friends. In fact, Roman grew up with Bruce – "

"Mrs. Garcia!" snapped the Black Mask. The startled woman stared at him, but the Black Mask covered his outburst masterfully. "I apologise, but I'm afraid I have to steal Miss Parker away. We're here on business actually and I see my associate over there. So if you would excuse us…"

"Of course! Of course! Don't mind me, Roman. You're always working so hard. If your parents could see you now – "

"Good evening, Mrs. Garcia," said the Black Mask, cutting her off as he steered Monroe to the other side of the room.

It took another two and a half glasses of champagne for the Black Mask to regain his usually cold composure.

"Jane Parker, huh?" he asked quietly.

Monroe rolled her eyes.

"Don't get too excited."

He studied her from behind his mask.

"No. I didn't think so." He took another sip of his champagne, obviously wishing it were something stronger. "You better hurry up before we attract even more attention."

Monroe arched a brow.

"If you wanted to remain inconspicuous you should have gone with a different mask."

The Black Mask tipped his glass towards a man who had just walked into the building. He was wearing a realistic replica of an elephant's head; complete with ivory tusks.

"Point taken," sighed Monroe. "Let's just get this over with. I want to get out of here."

As they split up, Monroe couldn't help but muse over the information she'd learnt from Mrs. Garcia. Judging from the Black Mask's reaction, his real name really was Roman Sionis. Which meant his family had to be incredibly rich if he grew up with Bruce Wayne of all people. But he didn't seem too fond of the other man. Monroe wondered why. Mrs. Garcia seemed to think they were friends. Yet from his reaction whenever the man's name was mentioned; it was like he hated Bruce Wayne. True, from what she had gathered during her stay in Gotham, the playboy billionaire was a womanising idiot, someone whom the Black Mask would have little patience for. But there seemed to be more to it than that.

Monroe had made her way towards the edge of the room by now. It was easy to spot the men assigned for the fundraiser's security detail. Monroe suppressed a snort. They really needed a masterclass on blending in with their surroundings. It was simple manoeuvring into a position that allowed her to 'accidentally' bump into the guard, lifting his access pass off him in the process.

"I'm so sorry! I'm always so clumsy."

"No harm done, ma'am."

Monroe smiled sweetly as she apologised to the man once more before walking past him to the restrooms. They were fairly empty this early in the evening. There was only one other woman as Monroe entered and she was simply checking her makeup. She smiled, prettily but vacantly, as she passed Monroe at the door.

"Nice dress," the woman chirped.

And that was the problem. It was a nice dress – flimsy and altogether impractical. But if Monroe wanted to make her unobtrusive escape later, she would need the dress to remain in one piece. Which was not going to happen if she wore it for what she was about to do.

Choosing the cubicle that had the ventilation shaft grate above it, Monroe locked the door behind her and wasted no time shimmying out of her dress and taking off her mask. It was fortunate that the skirt of her gown flared as it did because it allowed her to wear two garters; one with her knife and a pair of gloves strapped to it, the other held up a thin black camisole, which she now slipped over her head. Monroe was up for a lot of things, but crawling topless through a building's ventilation system was not one of them.

Flicking open her butterfly knife, Monroe lowered the lid onto the toilet, kicked off her heels and climbed onto it. Using a knife left impressions on the screws but Monroe did not plan to be anywhere near the Wayne Foundation Building when someone finally discovered them. And whilst gloves protected her hands, there would be no masking her footprints. But Monroe seriously doubted that anyone would be able to match those. Not when Aiden had already wiped all her records from every known database in the world. Monroe reminded herself to thank him again – if she got out of Gotham alive.

Back in the familiar comfort of a ventilation shaft, Monroe could finally appreciate the difficulty of the heist she was attempting to pull. She was in a building that currently held Gotham City's most powerful men and women, half of the police department were stationed within a two block radius of the Wayne Foundation Building because of the event, and all she had on her was a thin butterfly knife. The odds weren't great.

Monroe grinned. She could practically feel the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

If the blueprints the Black Mask had shown her were accurate, then the laboratories were two floors down: in the subbasement. Monroe resisted the urge to hum to herself as she crawled through the metal maze. This was infinitely more fun than Arkham.

It did not take long for Monroe to reach one of the primary airshafts. Looking above her, she could just barely make out the large fan at the mouth of the shaft. Below her, the shaft seemed to continue into an endless abyss. She would have to free climb her way down. Bracing her feet and her hands against the smooth metal, Monroe began her slow descent into the depths of the Wayne Foundation Building. She had just reached the section of the airshaft that branched off into the first basement when the idea occurred to her. From what she remembered from the blue prints, the basement was where the security room was situated; as well as the guard's locker room. Smiling impishly, Monroe swung herself into the ventilation system of the first basement, took a moment to run through her new plan of attack, and set off towards where she knew the locker rooms to be.

Seven minutes later found Monroe in the showers of the guard's locker room. Dropping soundlessly onto the tiled floor, she waited thirty seconds, listening for signs of the presence of other people in the locker room, before she hurried towards the lockers. Monroe almost felt insulted when she saw the locks on the locker doors. Instead of the rotary dial combination locks she had been expecting, they were using push button padlocks – one of the most easily cracked locks on the market. With a frustrated sigh, Monroe held the lock of the nearest locker up to the light, positioned her fingers over the keys that were the loosest, pressed down and roughly jiggled the padlock until she heard the tell-tale click.

"Too easy."

The uniform in the locker had obviously been tailored for a man a foot taller than Monroe was. But her only concern was that the shoes were too big. Shoving two fistfuls of toilet paper into them did help, but the fit was still uncomfortable. With her pants rolled in to a more manageable length, her sleeves rolled up so it didn't fall past her wrists and her shoes more or less staying on her feet, Monroe took a moment to consider the problem of her hair. She would need to cover it somehow if she didn't want to rouse suspicions when the security cameras picked her up. She tried two more lockers before coming across a hat that looked like it went with the uniform and was big enough to go over her hair.

Now disguised, Monroe headed confidently out of the locker room. She did not increase the speed of her walk and did not glance about unnecessarily. She knew the risks she faced, boldly walking through hallways covered by security cameras in almost every corner. The uniform would help her pass a cursory examination on film but if she didn't remain calm and behave like she had every right to be there, she was definitely going to get caught.

The thrill of it all made her grin again.

Monroe took the cargo lift down to the subbasement, taking care to keep her face away from the cameras. Access to the cargo lift required a pass card, and Monroe felt a swell of satisfaction that she had had the forethought to swipe one beforehand. But she quickly reminded herself not to get too cocky.

The subbasement was eerily quiet, instantly causing Monroe to throw up her guard. Painfully alert; she made her way down to the laboratory doors. She crossed her fingers as she ran her access pass through the card reader by the door, breathing a sigh of relief as the little red light flashed green and the doors swished open.

Monroe walked past the numerous counters laden with expensive lab equipment without sparing them a glance, and headed straight for the freezers. The Blue-ringed Octopus venom was in the fourth freezer, sitting on the second shelf. Her hand hovered over the test tubes as she considered the possible consequences of what she was about to do. The Black Mask had ordered her to steal one vial and destroy the other samples. Whatever he was planning to do with the poison, he obviously didn't want there to be the slightest possibility of an anti-venom being found.

It was the sound of someone coming up the hall that finally made her decision for her. Grabbing the test tubes, Monroe slipped two of them into the pocket of her borrowed pants, and threw the others into one of the metal sinks lining the room. The sound of glass shattering brought whoever was patrolling outside rushing into the laboratory and straight into Monroe's outstretched arm. She clothes-lined him, striking the man right in the throat. The security guard gurgled in surprise and barely noticed Monroe slipping past him.

Monroe knew better than to try using the cargo lift again. Dodging into a maintenance closet, she stripped out of hat, shoes, shirt and pants, secured the two test tubes to one of the garters around her thighs and climbed a metal shelving unit to reach the ventilation shaft opening near the ceiling of the small room.

It took Monroe an agonising fifteen minutes to reach a primary airshaft and free climb it back up to the first floor. It took her another four minutes to scurry her way to the restroom where she had abandoned her dress. Knowing that now was absolutely _not_ the time to start panicking, Monroe exited the ventilation shaft and replaced the ventilation shaft grate with the same meticulous care that she had with every job. Removing her gloves and her camisole, she carefully slipped them back into her garters and wiggled her way back into her beautiful, but impractical, dress. With her heels back on her feet, Monroe used her fingers to tease sections of her flattened hair to return it to its original airy state of whimsy. Taking in a few calming breaths, Monroe plastered a vacuous smile on her face and walked out of the restroom.

News of the robbery down in the laboratory had just reached this level. Monroe could see the small flurry of activity amongst the security detail on the first floor. But they had obviously not informed any of the guests yet as they were still mingling in the vast lobby of the Wayne Foundation Building, idly gossiping and writing large checks for the Thomas Wayne Foundation's medical research budget. Gliding through the crowd, Monroe kept an eye out for the Black Mask. They needed to get out of there.

"Jane!"

Monroe tried to hide her surprise as she was ambushed by the Mayor's wife. The woman latched onto her arm and began to steer her towards a stage that had been set up at one end of the room. The words "**WAYNE FOUNDATION MASQUERADE BALL**" were emblazoned in gold letters above the stage.

"I've been looking for you everywhere, my dear! Where on earth have you been?"

"Here and there," Monroe replied. She could feel the cold glass of the two test tubes strapped against her thigh; a constant reminder that the longer she stayed at the fundraiser the greater the risk she was running of getting caught. "Is there something you needed from me, Mrs. Garcia?"

"What? Oh no, dear. There's someone I wanted you to meet. By the way, Jane, that is a gorgeous dress. Who designed it?"

"I couldn't tell you," laughed Monroe, hoping she sounded light and off-handed. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Garcia, but I really should find – "

"Don't worry," said Mrs. Garcia, unintentionally cutting her off. "Roman's already with them. Ah! Roman! I've found her. She's been off getting to know the rest of our crowd."

Monroe didn't bother correcting the woman. She suddenly found herself by the Black Mask's side. His arm had wound around her waist and he was leaning in to whisper in her ear.

"Play along."

And then she was thrust in the midst of Gotham's most influential men and women. There was Mayor Anthony Garcia and his overly trusting wife, Commissioner James Gordon and his wife who both looked like they would rather be spending a quiet evening at home, Lydia Godewill and her husband who apparently worked in steel, and the last big name in the group –

"Jane!" gushed Mrs. Garcia. "I'd like you to meet Bruce Wayne."

* * *

**-dodges flying sporks- DON'T KILL ME! I know it's a bit of a cliffie but I promise the next update won't take as long as this one did.**

**This chapter ended up a little different from what I had originally intended. I was going to have the Joker make his great escape. But I decided to hold that off for a little while yet. It took me a while to get back into the writing groove (especially since I've been writing nothing but academic papers for the past couple of months) but I hope you guys like this chapter all the same.**

**On to news from Nolan's Batverse. Did anyone else wet themselves when they found out who the villains were going to be? Ok, maybe it was just me. But Catwoman AND Bane? Can't wait to see what he does with that.**

**Random info:**

**Although, in the comics, Bruce moved into the penthouse about the Wayne Foundation Building during the Batman 1960s to 80s era, the location of his penthouse is not specified in Nolan's Batverse. So I made the executive decision that the Wayne Foundation building is NOT where Bruce is currently living.**

**Monroe's mask: http : / img . costumecraze . com / images / vendors / forum / 64504-Black-Lace-Mask-large . jpg**

**The Black Mask's real name IS Roman Sionis. His parents were 'frenemies' of the Waynes, when both couples were still alive. So yes, he was legitimately invited to the fundraiser.**

katexleon**, **anna**: Thanks for your reviews guys! I always love hearing from my readers and I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far.**

Latenightreader**: Thank you. I always have this slight tinge of worry that I haven't made the Black Mask as badass as he's usually portrayed in the comics. As for Harvey Dent…by my understanding of what happened in The Dark Knight, Dent was killed by his fall. And since I'm trying to keep this as close, and as canon, to Nolan's Batverse, I will not be bringing him back in this story.**

Anony**: Your review made me giggle in delight, especially that part where you admit to jumping and making funny noises at the twists. It makes me feel like I've done my job as a writer. I know, poor Monroe. I don't treat her very well. Hope this chapter soothes your frazzled nerves.**

**To my readers, thanks for staying with me despite the long wait between updates; I really appreciate it. To any new readers, hope you're enjoying the story so far.**

**Remember to leave a review, even if it's just to say 'hi' (or throw sporks at me). I always love hearing from you guys.**

**Much love,**

**Scribbles**


	6. 5

**A/N: Replies to reviews at the bottom.**

**Okay, I admit, most of this chapter is pretty much filler. Until the end anyway.**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.**

* * *

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"_Thus passes the glory of the world"_

...

By Scribbles-Dementia

...

5

* * *

Monroe stared at the man before her. Tall, dark and handsome; Bruce Wayne was everything the Gotham tabloids had made him out to be. Monroe was sure that if she were to look up the term "playboy" in the dictionary, she would find his picture; probably splashed across an entire page. Every single strand of his dark hair was in place. His suit looked even more expensively tailored than the Black Mask's – Monroe knew that, if she were to check, she wouldn't find a label inside either pants, jacket or shirt – and his shoes were polished to a high sheen. The mask he wore, a variation on the design of the trademark mask from The Phantom of the Opera, seemed to add to his allure. He even smelled good. Monroe could see why the papers and magazines often strived to get the man onto their front page or cover; just his picture alone must sell them thousands of copies, regardless of the story it ran with.

However, the air of narcissistic hedonism the billionaire seemed to exude marred his good looks. The man was attractive and he knew it. And it seemed he was more than willing to live off that attribute alone instead of trying to better himself by doing something useful with his life. The tiny spark of interest Monroe noted in his eyes was the furthest thing from platonic and she found herself relaxing, easily returning his flirtatious smile. Bruce Wayne was hardly a threat. In fact, the only danger the playboy posed was of charming her panties off her.

Monroe held out her hand to shake his and was hardly surprised when Wayne brought it up to his lips instead. She felt her lips quirking in amusement; it would seem that the man instinctively hit on any living thing that was young and female. The young thief could feel the Black Mask stiffen beside her and his grip around her waist tightened considerably. She knew better than to think it was possessiveness the Black Mask felt. No, the man hated Bruce Wayne and was trying hard to keep a tight rein on his anger.

Her smile widened. This could be fun – if they had the time. Out of the corner of her eyes, Monroe spotted several more security guards who had made their way up to the lobby, all of them looking quite flustered. Oddly, none of the guests seemed to have noticed them yet.

"Miss Parker. It's a pleasure to meet you." Wayne had lowered her hand but still held it in his. "Any friend of Roman's is a friend of mine."

Monroe highly doubted that. Somehow she couldn't see the heir to the Wayne fortune crawling about Gotham's criminal underbelly. She was pretty sure he had never stepped foot in the Narrows in his life and the thought of him with a hideout like the Black Mask's was enough to make her laugh. She had to work had to quell that urge.

"The pleasure's all mine, Mr. Wayne," Monroe purred.

"Please, call me Bruce."

The Black Mask's fingers dug even deeper into her side. Monroe smiled up at him pleasantly.

"Your friend is quite the charmer, isn't he?" she asked innocently.

"Quite," he ground out.

Finally letting go of her hand, Wayne looked over his shoulder at a woman who was standing several feet away, before turning back with an apologetic smile.

"I would introduce my date but it seems she's found some movie director and I doubt I'd be able to pull her away. She's an actress," he explained at the look of polite inquiry on Monroe's face.

"Of course," said the Black Mask with just the slightest hint of a bite in his voice. Monroe briefly wondered how long it would take before he finally lost it and simply shot Wayne where he stood. She knew he had a compact .9mm handgun holstered to his right calf.

It was then that Monroe noticed one of the security guards making his way towards their little group. She could feel the tension, and irritation, radiating off the Black Mask despite his efforts to appear unaffected. She forced herself to remain calm; nothing was more suspicious than panic.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir," said the man, addressing Commissioner Gordon, "but…" The man hesitated, as if unsure if he should be delivering his news in front of the fundraiser's guests.

"Is there a problem? Has something happened?" asked Mrs. Garcia, a worried frown on her face.

"Well, ma'am," began the guard cautiously, breathing a sigh of relief when Commissioner Gordon cut him off.

"I'll handle it, Mrs. Garcia."

Eight sets of eyes following both men as they walked off into a more secluded area of the room, talking quietly but urgently. Monroe put on a look of wide-eyed bewilderment and moved even closer into the Black Mask's hold, hissing out of the corner of her mouth as she did so.

"Any bright ideas?"

"I wasn't the one who was careless," he hissed back. "By the way, you might want to retie your mask. It's slipping off your nose."

It was hard to miss the caustic bite in Monroe's thanks.

"Oh don't thank me," said the Black Mask. "I just don't need to have people recognising your face just yet."

The false smile Monroe wore faltered but she quickly recomposed herself before anyone noticed. If the Black Mask didn't want her recognised _just yet_, did that mean that he was planning on her face being recognisable in the future? It was not a comforting thought. Fortunately, Monroe did not plan on sticking around long enough for that to happen.

"I wonder what's going on?" Mrs. Garcia mused aloud.

Both her husband, Mr. Godewill and Wayne were quick to reassure her that the Commissioner had everything under control. Lydia Godewill vehemently expressed her trust in Commissioner Gordon. Mrs. Gordon, however, who had remained quiet the entire time, had a look of worry on her face. Monroe decided that now was as good a time as any to start making for the exit. But before she could do so, Commissioner Gordon rejoined their little group.

"What's the matter, Gordon?" demanded the Mayor.

Commissioner Gordon glanced first at his wife, then at Mrs. Garcia and finally at Monroe before deciding that it was probably better to keep the women in the loop instead of insisting that they not worry. From his experience, telling a female not to worry usually had the opposite effect.

"There's been a break-in," he said bluntly.

Mrs. Garcia gasped dramatically. Mrs. Godewill's hand flew to her throat. Monroe resisted the impulse to roll her eyes, though she did notice the impressive emerald hanging around Lydia Godewill's neck. Mrs. Gordon's frown deepened.

"What was taken?" asked Wayne and for the briefest instance, Monroe thought she saw a spark of sharp intelligence in his eyes. But it was gone the next moment, replaced by simple, if tasteless, curiosity.

"Something from the research labs," said the Commissioner, being deliberately vague. But then he went on. "A guard was attacked."

Monroe could literally feel the walls closing in. Damn the Black Mask! In all her twenty-four years, she'd only ever been caught once, and that had been by Aiden's father. She didn't count being abducted by the Black Mask's men since that was more kidnapping than catching her in the act. But now they were going to catch her with loot more dangerous than just money or a priceless jewel. She didn't even want to think of what would happen to her if they ran her prints and found nothing on any of the national or international databases. Monroe was so busy painting the grim picture of life spent in a Gotham prison that she almost missed what Commissioner Gordon said next.

" – able to describe his attacker. He said it was a large man dressed in one of their own uniforms."

This was it. She was going to – wait, what?

Monroe stared at the Commissioner dumbly.

"I'm afraid we're going to have to inform the rest of the guests. Security already has all the exits covered," he continued.

Monroe blinked stupidly. Beside her, the Black Mask relaxed slightly, dropping his arm from around her waist.

"Is that really necessary, Gordon?" questioned the Mayor. "Informing the guests, I mean. If your men have a description of the criminal I don't see why they can't conduct their search for him discreetly without disrupting the rest of the night. You know that people will just panic if they hear that a thief, and a violent one at that, is loose in the building."

The look the Commissioner gave the Mayor was one of long suffering and spoke volumes of what he thought of the other man's opinion. Mayor Garcia was either ignoring his look or could not read the undercurrents behind it. But Commissioner Gordon was not backing down that easily.

"We still need to question the rest of the guests, sir. Someone might have seen something."

"I agree with the Commissioner," said the Black Mask. Recalling his earlier order, Monroe played along, nodding enthusiastically.

"The thief might still be in the building, Mayor," said Monroe, trying very hard not to grin. "If someone did see something, the Commissioner might still be able to catch him."

The Black Mask smiled down at her. Or at least Monroe thought he was smiling. Wayne was, strangely enough, looking very thoughtful.

"Do you the think guard will be able to give us a more detailed description of his attacker other than that he was 'large'?" asked the billionaire.

"I would think so," said Commissioner Gordon.

"What are you thinking of, Bruce?" asked the Black Mask. His enquiry sounded friendly enough but Monroe knew better than to be fooled by that. She knew the cocky smile Wayne shot him was definitely pissing him off.

"Well, you know how it is, Roman. When word gets around that I'm looking for a man fitting his description, people usually fall over themselves with helpful information."

"Amazing what the name of Wayne can do," the Black Mask ground out.

"There was a time when the name of Sionis did the same," said Wayne coolly.

"Why don't the two of you just whip it out and measure it," drawled Monroe.

All heads snapped towards her. The Black Mask did _not_ look amused. The Mayor looked irritated. Mrs. Garcia looked shocked. Mr. Godewill was trying to stifle a cough. His wife studied her shrewdly. The Gordons simply looked tired. But there was a spark of laughter in Wayne's eyes.

"I'll go find a measuring tape," Monroe offered.

That did it. Wayne laughed.

"You're right, Miss Parker. Roman and I were behaving like three-year-olds. I apologise."

It was Mrs. Garcia who replied.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Bruce. Boys will be boys and all that."

Monroe seemed to be the only one who noticed the Black Mask clenching his fists. Threading her arm through his, she pointedly did not look at him while she smiled sweetly at Commissioner Gordon.

"I hope you catch him, Commissioner," she said.

The older man looked at her, as if not quite sure what to make of the young woman standing in front of him. Eventually, he seemed to decide that she must have been sincere for he returned her smile.

"Thank you, Miss Parker. And I'm sorry if I've ruined your night."

Monroe waved his apology aside.

"Don't be silly, Commissioner. It wasn't as if you could have seen this robbery coming. Besides, I've _thoroughly_ enjoyed myself tonight. And I'm sure Roman will be writing a huge check for this year's medical research budget. Won't you, Roman?"

The Black Mask made some non-committal noise that everyone seemed to take meant 'yes'.

"The Foundation would greatly appreciate it, Mr. Sionis," said Mrs. Godewill.

Thus diverted, Monroe watched as the Commissioner and Wayne talked quietly amongst themselves whilst everyone else discussed the numerous medical advances that could be made with the donations received that night. As Mrs. Godewill introduced the topic of a possible cure for HIV, Monroe decided that it was definitely high time she and the Black Mask made their escape.

"That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Godewill!" she exclaimed. Turning to the Black Mask, she beamed up at him. "Let's go write out that cheque right now!"

The way Mrs. Garcia looked at the both of them, Monroe almost wanted to check if there was a halo floating over her head. It took a little longer to finally extricate themselves from the group, during which time Monroe found herself agreeing to meet Mrs. Garcia and Mrs. Gordon for lunch some time next week and accepting a dinner invitation to a party that the Godewills were throwing. They were almost free when Wayne noticed them.

"Leaving so soon, Roman?"

"Jane and I were just about to go make our donation."

Wayne grinned at them.

"Off to do your part, eh? Well, it's been a pleasure catching up with you, Roman. We have to do it again some time."

They shook hands, though it looked more like they were trying to crush each other's fingers. And then before anyone else could stop them, Monroe and the Black Mask disappeared into the crowd, just as another security guard came rushing up to the Commissioner.

"Don't stop," hissed the Black Mask, as they made for the exit, walking briskly but not fast enough to start drawing suspicion.

"Wasn't planning on it," said Monroe.

Whipping out his cell phone, the Black Mask pressed the speed dial button and gave a few curt orders. It came as no surprise to Monroe that Mariano was waiting for them when they finally made it out the door.

"Drive!" the Black Mask barked.

Monroe turned in her seat to look out the back window as they pulled away but no one had come after them. A wide grin spread across her face. The look she shot the Black Mask was one of pure mischief.

"Well, that was fun."

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," said the Black Mask dryly.

Settling back into her seat, Monroe wished she had her mp3 with her. It had become a habit to end every heist with some good rock music. She distractedly tapped out a beat on the leather interior of the limousine.

"Stop that," snapped the Black Mask.

"Geez, touchy," muttered Monroe, though she did as she was told. She knew her bravado was an after-effect of the adrenaline that had been fuelling her, but at the moment she didn't care that she was talking back. Unlike how the Arkham job had ended, this felt really, really good. She started humming.

The Black Mask observed her silently. And then he started chuckling. Monroe abruptly stopped humming. It was still unnerving to hear any sort of laughter emerge from behind an expressionless block of dark wood. When his chuckles started dying down, the Black Mask held out his hand.

"The venom?"

Monroe was glad that the Black Mask deliberately sought out eye contact. She was sure that he viewed his unwavering gaze as a sort of intimidation technique. And while she would readily admit that meeting his stare was uncomfortable, she knew that it meant that he was not watching her hands. Making sure that the skirt of her dress properly covered her thighs, she smoothly slipped one of the test tubes out of her garter and handed it over to him.

"What are you going to do with it?"

The Black Mask rolled the glass vial in his hand.

"Patience, my girl. Patience."

Monroe glared at him.

"I'm not your girl."

The Black Mask simply laughed.

* * *

Two days later found Monroe with still no clue what the Black Mask wanted the Blue-ringed Octopus venom for. She had, however, become quite a sensation amongst the Gotham press. The headline of the Gotham Times was testament to that:

_**GHOST, MAN…OR WOMAN?**_

_Following the uproar on the night of the Wayne Foundation Masquerade Ball, you would think Gotham's finest would be more willing to part with information regarding the theft from the Thomas Wayne Foundation's Research and Development Laboratories. However, the Gotham Police Department have been keeping mum, refusing to confirm or deny rumours of what exactly was stolen and who their suspects are. And the rumour mill has been rife. From claims that the theft was masterminded by the Scarecrow, who had recently escaped from Arkham, to the Batman, currently Public Enemy Number One, no one seems to know for sure what the events of Friday night means for the citizens of Gotham. But a reliable source from within the Wayne Foundation is adamant that this was the work of The Ghost._

_Not much is known about this mysterious criminal, who never seems to leave behind any evidence – no DNA, not fingerprints – nothing that points back to his real identity. Until now…_

There followed, three blurry photographs, obviously stills taken off a security feed. Though none of them showed her face, they did show an obviously tiny female frame dwarfed by oversized clothes. The journalist who had written the article was positively ecstatic at this new development behind "_the mystery of The Ghost_". There were similar reports in the Gotham Morning Post and the Gotham Sunday Press.

Monroe snorted as she turned the page, reaching across the table for her Styrofoam cup of tea. They may have pictures of her but she wasn't worried. There were no visible identifying markers other than the colour of her hair, and it wasn't like dark hair was uncommon. Green hair however…

Monroe gulped down her scalding drink.

She might not have known what the Black Mask planned to do with the venom she had stolen but she had at least found out the reason behind Bader's attack on the Joker the night they broke Crane out of Arkham.

It had been a complete accident. Last night she had gone up to the private office the Black Mask kept towards the back of the building, wanting to ask him to return her copy of 'A Clockwork Orange'. She hadn't meant to eavesdrop. But the door had been left ever so slightly ajar and the name of the Joker had caught her attention. Crane and the Black Mask were in the midst of a heated argument. From what Monroe could gather, Crane was, calmly, accusing the Black Mask of eliminating the competition.

"You're afraid of him," the doctor had said, his voice sounding highly amused.

"I'M NOT AFRAID OF ANYTHING!" the Black Mask had roared.

Monroe couldn't make out what Crane had said next but whatever it was had caused the Black Mask to react rather violently.

"ARE YOU INSANE!" the man had thundered. But his raised voice hadn't fazed Crane.

"I believe the Joker can be of some use to us."

"THAT FREAK IS – "

But Monroe never did find out what the Black Mask thought of the Joker. Teddy had found her then, warned her that she shouldn't be there, and had herded her back to her room.

Lowering her cup, Monroe peered over its rim at the man seated opposite her. Teddy had commandeered the Sunday crossword puzzle from the Gotham Morning Post and was busy writing out the answers in pen, a frown of concentration furrowing his brow while a cigarette hung from his lips. She didn't know what to make of the man. On the one hand, he had played a major part in her branding. Yet, on the other, he seemed to genuinely look out for her. Teddy took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaled slowly, and scribbled out another word.

"Those things will kill you one day," said Monroe.

Teddy looked up from his crossword.

"So you keep telling me."

He inhaled deeply once again and then, deliberately keeping his eyes on the paper, he stubbed out his cigarette on the table. Monroe hid her smile behind her Styrofoam cup. Deciding that this required some sort of gesture on her part, Monroe offered a confirmation of the information Teddy had guessed at two days before.

"You were right, you know." Teddy looked up again, questioningly. "About me being a foster kid."

Teddy stared at her, as if trying to read what her intentions were. And then he shrugged.

"Nothing to be ashamed about."

"Never said I was."

"Of course." He returned his attention to his crossword, wrote out another word, and spoke again. "So you aged out?"

Monroe considered his question for a moment before deciding that there really was no harm in telling him the truth.

"No. Took to the streets before that."

Teddy nodded. Monroe cocked her head.

"What about you?"

"What about me?" he grunted.

"Why are you working for the Black Mask?"

"Why not?" Teddy countered. "The pay's good."

"Yeah. But the health benefits suck."

Teddy laughed. Or at least Monroe thought he did. It might have been a cough instead. She smiled.

"You know, this is the longest conversation we've ever had."

Teddy grunted. Monroe's smile widened. A comfortable silence descended over the two as he went back to his crossword and she returned to her paper.

That evening, her hair still dripping from her shower, Monroe removed the porcelain lid from the tank of the toilet to check on the transceiver she had hidden there. She had been sending off the same short message, twice a day, since she had first completed the transceiver but had yet to hear back from Aiden. Honestly, Monroe wasn't expecting to receive a reply that evening either. But as she unwrapped the transceiver, she could see the blue LED she had used on the exposed circuit board flashing erratically. Monroe's breath caught in her throat.

It was a simple four-word message in Morse code: **Message received. Get out.**

* * *

It was a quiet Sunday evening at the Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane – or as quiet as it would ever get in a place like Arkham. It had been over an hour since the change over to the night shift and most of the doctors had gone home for the day. But in a darkened office on the sixth floor, Doctor Harleen Frances Quinzel was going through the case file of one of her patients.

The file was thick, filled with her notes from their one-on-one sessions, yet there was very little known information on the man who called himself the Joker. His real name was still a mystery and she could only guess that he must be somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties. His personal history seemed to change with each telling, yet Doctor Quinzel was convinced he believed that each story he told was the truth. He was one of her more interesting patients and, if she were honest with herself, she looked forward to and enjoyed their sessions. Which was why she always scheduled her meetings with him at the end of the day. It gave her something to think about on her commute home.

The Joker had been in Arkham for a week and during that time Doctor Quinzel felt that they had made good progress. Three nights ago she had convinced him to call her Harleen instead of Doc; well, he had called her Harley but it was a step forward. And last night she had actually been able to talk to him without an orderly or guard present in the room and he hadn't attacked her. Yes, she considered that quite a breakthrough. In fact, Doctor Quinzel was fast coming to the conclusion that the Joker just might be one of her biggest success cases. He was far more interesting than her former colleague-turned-patient anyway.

Checking that her digital recorder was properly charged, Doctor Quinzel switched off her desk lamp and headed towards the maximum-security ward for that night's session with the Joker. As she neared his cell, she could felt the familiar combination of nervousness and nausea. It was not a sensation she had much experience with before knowing the Joker and she filed it away in her mind for closer examination and analysis later.

Both the orderly and guard standing by the Joker's wardroom were built like a brick outhouse and both wore similar expressions of disapproval when she instructed them to wait outside the cell again.

"She's gonna get herself killed," the guard muttered as Doctor Quinzel walked past. She ignored him, relieving the orderly of the foldable metal chair he held in his hands.

The Joker was sitting on the thin mattress that had been pushed up into one corner of the room, leaning against the wall and humming to himself. The cot that usually came with the mattress had been removed from his cell, as had any other bit of furniture that was not welded down. It seemed like an unnecessary precaution though as the man was already encased in a straightjacket _and_ muzzled. The orderly warily removed the muzzle and hurried from the room.

"Good evening, Harley," drawled the Joker as Doctor Quinzel set up her chair in the middle of the room. She smiled.

"Good evening."

A hint of steel crept into the Joker's eyes though his voice remained light and friendly.

"Now, now, Doc. I'm calling you by your first name, just like you wanted. It's only polite to return the favour and call me by my name."

"Well, if you really want to get into that, my name's Harleen. Not Harley," Doctor Quinzel retorted in that calm voice all psychiatrists seemed to possess. "And I would refer to you by name if only you'd tell me what it is."

"Oh, but you know my name, _Harley_."

Doctor Quinzel refused to be baited, moving on instead to another topic.

"Orderly Marks says you haven't eaten any of your meals today."

The Joker turned away, looking into the blank wall beside him.

"No one likes a tattle-tale."

"Why aren't you eating?"

Doctor Quinzel watched the young man before her fidget in his restraints. He really was a beautiful specimen of the male species. She even felt his scars gave him character. Despite his habitual slouch, he was obviously tall. His blonde hair and dark eyes would make any woman swoon. She didn't understand why he would want to hide behind his trademark garish makeup. She was sure it was a defence mechanism of some sort.

Suddenly, the Joker turned back around to face her, grinning widely.

"Hey, Harley. Want to see a magic trick?"

She smiled again.

"No, thank you."

The Joker's grin fell from his face.

"You're no fun at all."

"Well, I apologise."

"Don't." The Joker's tongue flicked over his bottom lip, his face suddenly serious. "Never apologise for anything, Harley."

Doctor Quinzel couldn't quite describe the feeling she got in the pit of her stomach as he said that. It also took her a moment to realise she was holding her breath. The rush of heat between her legs, however, was very familiar. Yet, in spite of her inner turmoil, outwardly she remained the figure of calm and control.

"Is that a rule you live by?" she asked. But the Joker had returned his attention to the wall and was no longer listening. She tried a different tactic. "Tell me about yourself. Before you became the Joker."

He twisted his face into the semblance of a pout. Doctor Quinzel had to admit it was adorable.

"A trade," he finally said, placing heavy emphasis on the 'd' in the word.

"Trade?"

"I'll tell you 'bout little ole me…if you let me loose from this…" he tested the restraints of his straightjacket again. "…thing."

Doctor Quinzel leaned back in her chair, studying him carefully. As if reading her mind, the Joker grinned. It was not exactly a reassuring sight.

"I – uh – promise I won't hurt you, Harley." His tongue flicked out again. "And I _am_ a man of my word."

That was all it took. Doctor Quinzel relaxed into her chair, the corner of her lips quirking upwards.

"Deal."

The Joker laughed; a cackle that sounded almost childlike. And then he sobered up.

"Jeannie was pregnant. I was trying to get a job as a stand-up comedian but I wasn't very good. The house stank of cat litter and old people. I started out as a lab technician, you know? But I quit because I thought I had _talent_." He spat out the last word. "I should have been home. Should have gotten her out of that crap heap. But I wasn't…I didn't." He was facing the wall again. "She died." He gave a bitter bark of laughter. "A power short. She was trying to test a baby bottle heater. A baby bottle heater!" He turned to face Doctor Quinzel, his eyes gleaming. "Ain't that just hilarious?"

Doctor Quinzel remained silent but couldn't deny that, for some reason, whomever this Jeannie woman was, she was glad she was dead. When the Joker showed no signs of continuing, she got up off her chair and went to kneel beside him.

"A deal's a deal."

The Joker rolled his shoulders as Doctor Quinzel helped him out of the straightjacket. Once he was free, she took a step back, holding the jacket in her arms and watching him carefully. Bracing his hands on the wall, the Joker pushed himself up and off the ground. He took a few steps, stopped, and looked towards the door of his cell, grinning when no one came rushing in. He stretched his arms over his head, groaning in appreciation at the freedom his muscles now had. Doctor Quinzel unconsciously licked her lips. The Joker's grin widened.

"Thanks, Harley." He started walking towards her, eyes dancing in amusement when she began backing away. When her back finally hit the wall, he brought his arms up, trapping her between them. She still held the straightjacket in her hands. "I _really_ appreciate that."

Doctor Quinzel swallowed hard.

"You're welcome."

"You know, Harley…" She could feel his breath dancing across her cheeks. "It's only fair that I – uh – return the favour." He tugged lightly at the front of her blouse.

She frowned, forcing a look of confusion on her face despite the rush of excitement she felt.

"What do you mean?"

The Joker leaned in closer.

"Take a look around you, Harley. You're a prisoner."

She inhaled sharply.

"I think you're a little confused. I'm not the one who's a prisoner here."

The Joker sighed. Doctor Quinzel forced herself not to reach for him when he pushed himself off the wall and turned his back on her. He walked back to the centre of the room, tilting his head back to stare into the single fluorescent lamp mounted onto the ceiling.

"Ah, Harley." He closed his eyes, as if basking in the heat of the artificial lighting. "You just don't get it." He sounded almost disappointed. Head still tilted back, he cracked open his eyes to peer at her. "But let me show you."

Before Doctor Quinzel could stop him, the Joker had grabbed her foldable metal chair and swung it up, smashing the fluorescent lamp above him. The next few minutes were utter chaos as the cell door burst open and both the guard and the orderly rushed in.

When she was asked later about what had happened, Doctor Quinzel couldn't quite remember. She knew that she had stood still against the wall, not moving to stop the Joker or help her colleagues. In fact, the only thing she could recall was thinking how beautiful the Joker had looked as he was bathed in a shower of sparks, looking every inch like the Avenging Angel himself.

* * *

Tibli**: You bookmarked! I love that! It's what I do to when I'm really into a story and I'm not signed on. Aww, everyone loves a good cliffie. Haha!**

GalaticCannibalism**: Trust me; enjoy highschool while you still can! And yeah, Monroe is a bit crazy, especially when she's high on the adrenaline that comes from pulling off a job. Haha! I'm glad you like the chapter. **

TheSlytherinNation**: If Monroe EVER shows signs of developing Stockholm's Syndrome you have my full permission to slap me crazy! She still does things that confuses me sometimes (even though she's my character) but one thing I know for sure is that Monroe's not the type of woman to be beaten into submission.**

**And the Joker finally makes his great escape! Gosh, I definitely need to watch The Dark Knight again; writing that Joker scene was harder than I thought it'd be. I blame Harley. I've never really liked her anyway.**

**Random info:**

**The story the Joker tells Harley comes from 'The Killing Joke'.**

**Please remember to leave a review! You know I love hearing from you guys. I'm like a junkie. Feed my habit!**

**Much love,**

**Scribbles**


	7. 6

**A/N: Thanks for all your reviews guys! I really appreciate it; makes me all giddy and happy whenever I log on and see a new review! Can we try to hit over 50 this time round? One chapter usually averages about 6 reviews and I know that there are more than 6 readers out there. Come on guys. Feed my habit. Pretty please?**

**I had planned for this to be out sooner but I hit a bit of writer's block half way through. Anyways, I hope you guys like this chapter. We get a bit of everyone in this one!**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.**

* * *

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"_Thus passes the glory of the world"_

...

By Scribbles-Dementia

...

6

* * *

_Monroe was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming because it had been years since she was so small. She was seven years old and already on her sixth foster family. The mother was a nurse; the father a lawyer, and they were both the biggest sociopaths she'd ever met. _She_ had anger issues and _he_ liked using Monroe as his personal ashtray._

_Monroe looked down at her arms, so skinny and awkwardly lanky. Bandages covered her forearms, the pristine whiteness of the material almost blinding. At least the wounds had stopped bleeding. Her foster mum had lost her temper again last night. If Morgan hadn't been there to stop her, Monroe knew she would have bleed out._

_Morgan – Monroe hadn't thought about her in a while. She was the other foster kid at the house. Morgan was fourteen years old and had been through as many families as Monroe had. She supposed that was why the older girl was constantly looking out for her. Morgan hated everyone, but she seemed to like her._

_Monroe looked up. She was at school again – in the playground to be precise. It was recess and Monroe was sitting on the swings, alone. Her little fingers burrowed their way beneath the edge of her bandages. Her arms itched. A shadow fell across her and she could feel her body immediately, instinctively, go into fight-or-flight mode._

_Someone pushed her, hard. She fell backwards off the swings, throwing out her arms to break her fall, and bit down on her bottom lip to keep from crying out at the shock of the impact. She could feel the stitches that Morgan had put into her arms snapping. A tinge of red began to stain her bandages._

_She was surrounded by a group of kids who began calling her names, asking her why her clothes smelt of garbage bags. They were all from the class above her. It was always the same thing, everyday, and Monroe had learnt not to give them the satisfaction of crying._

_A shout sounded out from across the playground. It was Morgan. And she looked pissed. Monroe watched as Morgan began beating the crap out of her bullies, not seeming to care that they were a good six years younger than she was. As Morgan broke the nose of one of her tormentors, Monroe wondered why the older girl wasn't at her high school half way across town._

_A teacher eventually broke up the fight. Their foster parents were called. And that evening they were both beaten to within an inch of their lives. As they sat in a bathroom, patching each other up, Morgan proposed her idea. Monroe stared at her._

"_What?"_

"_We need to get out of here," Morgan repeated. "Tonight."_

"_Social services won't come for us. We've tried that already, remember?"_

"_I'm not talking about social services," said Morgan, threading a surgical needle. The stitches on Monroe's arms needed to be redone. She reached for the lighter to sterilize the needle. "Besides, do you really want to have to pack everything you own into garbage bags again and wait for them to ship you off to another family? There's no guarantee that they'll be any better than those bastards upstairs. We've got to look out for ourselves. No one else will."_

_Monroe hissed as the needle pierced her skin but made no other sound. Morgan worked quickly. It was disturbing how neither of them really found the situation odd._

"_Where will we go?" Monroe asked as Morgan wrapped up her arms again._

"_Anywhere. Everywhere."_

_Monroe held out her right arm, the fingers of her little hand curled into a fist, except for her pinkie._

"_We'll stick together. Promise?"_

_Morgan looked at the little hand in front of her, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips at the sight of the completely serious expression on the girl's face. After a brief pause, she linked her own pinkie finger with Monroe's._

_That night, they crept out of their rooms once they were sure that their foster parents were asleep. Monroe had been able to shove all her possessions into her school bag and she was wearing several layers of her warmest clothing and her thickest jacket. Making their way into the kitchen, Morgan removed several towels from a drawer and handed them to Monroe._

"_Wet them."_

_Monroe did as she was told, watching as Morgan removed a knife from the wooden knife block and flung open the cabinet door that hid the gas tank that fuelled the stove. Grabbing the gas hose, she doubled it up, slid the knife into the loop and yanked up sharply. Nothing happened. But Morgan put down the knife and held her hand out for one of the towels. Wrapping the damp towel over the section of the gas hose she had sliced at, Morgan instructed Monroe to hand over the other two towels and go wait for her by the front door. She disappeared for about five minutes, but when she returned, the towels and the knife were no longer in her hands. Instead, Morgan was carrying an ashtray, a lighter, a cigar cutter and one of their foster dad's Cuban cigars. She placed the ashtray and lighter on the sideboard in the entrance hall._

"_Go wait for me outside."_

_Monroe hesitated._

"_GO!" Morgan barked._

_Monroe waited for her in the front yard. Morgan didn't take as long this time around and was soon out the front door, locking it behind her._

"_Come on."_

_Monroe followed Morgan across the street. But then the older girl stopped, plopped herself down on the curb and dropped her set of house keys through the drain grate beneath her._

"_Morgan?"_

"_Wait a minute. I want to watch this."_

_Monroe uncertainly placed her bag on the ground and took a seat next to Morgan. She watched as the other girl reached into one of her pockets, removing the lighter Monroe had seen her with earlier. She began to flick it on and off._

"_What are we – "_

"_Shh! Just watch."_

_They waited for almost two minutes before anything happened. One second, Monroe was watching the flame from Morgan's lighter snap out again. The next second, she was looking at an even larger fireball as the house in front of them exploded. Monroe jumped at the sudden and unexpected explosion._

"_Beautiful, isn't it?" whispered Morgan, her voice filled with awe._

_Monroe wasn't sure what she thought of the blaze. There was definitely something hypnotising about it. She was aware of their neighbours coming out of their houses. Someone was shouting. Somewhere, a baby was crying. And through it all, the two girls watched as the house they had been living in for the past year, and the two people inside it, steadily burned before them._

_It was the sound of sirens that eventually snapped Monroe out of her daze. When she finally took her eyes off the inferno in front of her, Morgan was gone._

Monroe didn't wake up screaming. She didn't wake up violently nor was she even breathing heavily. Monroe simply opened her eyes and was awake. She didn't know why she dreamt of Morgan. She hadn't thought of her foster sister in years; didn't even know if the girl still went by the same name.

Looking down at the four ugly scars on her forearms, two on each arm, Monroe knew that she owed Morgan her life. At fourteen, her skills with a needle weren't exactly perfect and the stitches hadn't been neat, but they had done their job. The majority of the scars on her body had been caused during her stay in that particular foster home. The three burn marks she bore on her neck had been the result of her foster dad using her to stub out his cigar. Monroe didn't particularly like violence but she felt no remorse at what she and Morgan had done that night. It was justice.

As the last vestiges of sleep faded away, Monroe realised that despite abandoning her, Morgan had left her with one last means of freeing herself. Had shown her, in fact, how to go about putting her escape plans into action.

As Monroe got out of bed that morning, she did so with a grin on her face.

* * *

Chaos reigned in the Gotham City Police Department. The Major Crimes Unit was in an uproar, phones were ringing off the hook and every officer that wasn't chained to a desk was running around like chickens with their heads chopped off. Commissioner Gordon was sure he was losing his hair. A Doctor Harleen Quinzel was sitting in one of their interview rooms offering nothing helpful and taking up too much of his time. And somewhere in Gotham, the Joker was running loose.

Gordon downed his tepid coffee in one go. They needed to get stronger coffee.

"Commissioner!"

Gordon bit back an exasperated sigh and turned to see what the officer wanted. It was the same rookie that had been with him the night of the Scarecrow's escape. He still looked as jittery as ever.

"The Mayor's on line one, sir."

This time Gordon did sigh.

"I'll take it in my office." He handed the younger man his empty mug. "Refill that, will you?"

Gordon's office, at first glance, looked to be as disorderly as the rest of the department. Stacks of manila folders sat on his desk, precariously close to toppling over. Filing cabinets lined an entire wall, none of them labelled. Yet if asked to find a particular file on a particular criminal, Gordon would have been able to locate it without hesitation. The window was open, letting in a slight breeze. Several family photos sat next to the phone on his desk. The call waiting light flashed angrily.

"Hello?"

"Gordon?" came Mayor Garcia's voice over the telephone. "My office has been inundated with calls all morning. Is it true? Has the Joker really escaped?"

"Wish I could say it wasn't, sir."

Mayor Garcia swore.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

"We're doing the best we can, sir. We've got an eyewitness, the psychiatrist who was treating him. But she's as much help now as she was when Crane escaped."

"This is the second break out in less than a week, Gordon. Obviously, something's not right at Arkham."

Gordon pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping to ward off a headache he could feel coming. He had always thought there was something "not right" at Arkham but there had never seemed to be enough funding to make any improvements on the place. He knew better than to tell the mayor that though.

"The department's overwhelmed, Mayor. We're getting calls every five seconds with Joker sightings all over the city. We just don't have the manpower to follow every lead. We need help."

The line fell silent. If it weren't for the absence of a dial tone, Gordon would have sworn that the mayor had hung up on him.

"You want me to take the warrant off the Batman," Mayor Garcia finally said.

"We need him, sir," was all Gordon said.

There was another pause, slightly longer this time, before Gordon heard the mayor sigh in resignation.

"Fine. But just until the Joker's caught. He still killed Dent, Gordon. He's got to pay for that."

Gordon said nothing. He was one of the few people who knew the truth behind the events that led to Harvey Dent's death and he wasn't about to tell the mayor about it. Harvey Dent had been Gotham's White Knight before the Joker had corrupted him and the city needed that memory of him as much as they needed their Dark Knight. The mayor was talking again.

"He better catch the freak, Gordon. We don't need a repeat of what happened last time. God, has it only been a week? We can't afford to have the Joker blowing up any more hospitals. Get it done, Gordon."

And then Mayor Garcia hung up.

Gordon ran a hand over his face, wondering where the rookie was with his coffee. Now that he had the mayor's permission, the problem was going about getting in touch with the Batman. They had destroyed the Bat signal and it wasn't like the masked crusader had left them his emergency cell number. But first things first, Gordon picked up the phone again.

"Erikson?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Get on the system and take off the warrant that's out on the Batman. And then get on the phone and call an electrician."

"Yes, sir," came the immediate reply. The officer even sounded almost relieved. Erikson was one of the few officers Gordon trusted completely. The man had a lot of potential and a level head on his shoulders. Unfortunately for him, he had a sick mother and was up to his eyeballs in unpaid hospital bills, which meant he had fallen under heavy suspicion during the Joker's reign of terror a week ago when no one knew whom they could trust anymore. But Gordon was more than ready to remedy that, having planned to recommend him for a promotion when it came time for the end of year review. The fact that the man was able to see the sense in entreating the Batman for help simply reaffirmed Gordon's opinion of him. "Do you think he'll come back, sir?"

Gordon looked out his window. The sun was just barely visible between the gaps of the buildings opposite the police station.

"I don't know, Erikson. I don't know."

* * *

Monroe almost did a double take as she walked into the cafeteria. With the exception of Teddy sitting at their usual table, the entire room was empty. It was usually filled to the brim with the Black Mask's goons. She had gotten so used to having hoards of people around the building at any given time that the lack of any other human presence besides herself and Teddy immediately had her on alert.

"Where's everybody?"

"They ran away," answered Teddy without looking up from his paper. "Well, the kids did. The Boss sent some of the others out to check if the rumours are true."

"What rumours?" asked Monroe, sitting down opposite her guard. He unfolded his paper to reveal the front page and tossed it over to her. Printed in large bold font across the page was the headline, '**JOKER ESCAPES FROM ARKHAM**'. "Shit."

"Yeah."

"How pissed is he?'

Teddy wasn't stupid. He knew whom Monroe was talking about.

"I'd stay out of his way today if I were you."

And Monroe had every intention of doing just that. Unfortunately, the Black Mask seemed to have other plans. Halfway through breakfast, someone came to summon her to the Lab.

The Lab was, in actual fact, a proper laboratory. Back when Janus Cosmetics was as booming a beauty company as L'Oréal or Maybelline and the factory was still in operation, the Lab had been where new products had been developed and tested. Now, it had been converted to fit whatever purpose the Black Mask and Doctor Crane had for it, and was off-limits to almost everyone, including Monroe.

She wasn't sure what she was expecting to see; maybe a few bubbling beakers, test tubes with ominous fumes emitting from them; but she was sorely under-whelmed as she walked into the room. It looked so…ordinary. The once white floor tiles were covered in a thick layer of grim and the paint on the walls was peeling. Nothing looked properly sterile and she shuddered to think what they could possibly be concocting in it. Crane spotted her first.

"Ah, here she is!"

Monroe kept silent. From the look in the Black Mask's eyes, she knew he wouldn't appreciate her backtalk today. The man who had brought her to the Lab pushed her forward slightly and hurriedly turned around, not wanting to stay there longer than necessary. But his escape was thwarted by a sharp order from the Black Mask. The man stayed where he was, nervously looking around the room.

"I'm so glad you could join us, Ghost," said Crane, ignoring the tense undercurrents in the Lab.

"Just get on with it, Doctor Crane," barked the Black Mask.

It was then that Monroe noticed the syringe in Crane's hands. It was filled with some sort of clear liquid that looked harmless enough but Monroe knew better. No one in their right mind would ever think that anything made by Crane could possibly be harmless. At a nod from the doctor, the goon moved in to hold her hands behind her back.

To say Monroe struggled would have been an understatement. She fought tooth and nail, twisting around in the man's grip that he had to readjust his hold on her several times. The third time he did so, he made the mistake of bending his head towards her to warn her to stop moving. Monroe slammed her head back and was rewarded with the satisfying sound of the man's nose breaking. Yelling out in pain, he released her to staunch the flow of blood from his broken nose. She turned to run for the door, when she suddenly felt the unmistakable feel of a barrel of a gun pressing into the back of her skull.

"Don't tempt me," came the Black Mask's voice.

Monroe heard Crane walking around her and as he came within her line of vision, she saw that he was gently tapping the air bubbles out of the syringe. He had an amused smile on his face.

"Really, Ghost," he chastised. "That was unnecessarily violent. Now would you mind rolling up your sleeve?"

Monroe did not move. Crane simply shrugged and ordered the bloodied goon to do it instead. The man glared at her, blood still flowing freely from his nose, and did as he was told with more force than necessary. Crane ran his fingers, almost tenderly, over the scars on her forearm, before pressing the needle into the crook of her arm.

"There. That wasn't so bad now, was it?"

Monroe waited for her body to react to the shot. But nothing happened. She shot Crane a suspicious glare.

"What did you do to me?"

"Really, Ghost," said Crane, sounding almost hurt. "You're acting as if I tried to poison you."

"I wouldn't put it past you."

The Black Mask snorted and removed his gun from her head, flicking the safety back on and holstering it.

"The thought did cross my mind. But I still have use for you. Don't worry, what the good doctor just gave you was an immunising shot to his fear toxin."

"You didn't think it was the octopus venom, did you?" asked Crane with a smile that would have been disarming if Monroe didn't know what the man was capable of. He walked over to a table where he picked up a tiny vial. "Besides, it's still in its testing phase and like the Boss said, you're too valuable for me to use you as a guinea pig."

Monroe wasn't sure how to respond to that. So she said the first thing that popped into her head.

"Thanks."

The Black Mask laughed. Crane smiled again. The goon whose nose she had broken looked like he wanted to snap her neck. Monroe wondered why she would need an immunisation shot to Crane's fear toxin.

But any questions she might have had were pushed to the back burner when a sudden commotion out in the hallway caught their attention. Monroe followed Crane and the Black Mask out of the Lab just in time to see two men stumbling down the hall, holding up a third between them. All three looked like they had just lost a fight. The one in the middle was covered in blood.

"What the hell happened?" demanded the Black Mask.

Monroe studied him out of the corner of her eye. The man really seemed to have trouble keeping his cool these days. In a way, she found it reassuring. It was proof that behind the ebony mask, he really was just a man – a normal, ordinary, fallible man.

"He knew we were coming, Boss," said the goon on the right, whom she recognised as Mariano despite his swollen black eye. "Some of our boys were there already. They fucking switched sides on us."

As the head of the man in the middle lolled to the side, Monroe saw the reason why he was covered in so much blood. Someone had sliced up one side of his face; a large gaping wound ran from the corner of his lip to the bottom of his ear. It was amazing that he hadn't died from the blood loss.

"He needs a doctor," she found herself saying. All eyes turned to her. "Before he bleeds to death."

Crane held open the door to the Lab.

"Bring him inside," he said.

The Black Mask watched his men thoughtfully as they staggered into the laboratory.

"I take it he said 'no' then."

"I would say this is a 'fuck no', Boss," said Mariano. "The others didn't make it."

The Black Mask growled.

"How many men are we down to?"

"Seventeen. Eighteen if we count her guard." He jerked his thumb in Monroe's direction.

Monroe scowled.

"I'm standing right here."

Both men ignored her. Folding his arms across his chest, the Black Mask seemed to be deep in thought. Finally he nodded absently at whatever conclusion he had come to and made his way back into the Lab.

"Well, we tried your way, Doctor Crane," the Black Mask announced. "Now we try mine."

Monroe did not like the sound of that. She didn't need to be a mind reader to know what the Black Mask wanted to do – he was going to declare an all-out war on the Joker. Hey, who needs the Batman when the two crime lords can just eliminate each other? It saves everyone else a lot of hard work. Monroe snorted. The Black Mask looked up.

"Do you have something you'd like to add?"

She shrugged.

"Not really. If you want to get yourselves killed, by all means, go right ahead."

The Black Mask regarded her critically, leaning back onto the metal counter behind him. With that simple move, he reminded her of the very first impression she had of him – of a panther – elegant but deadly. It was hard to tell what he was thinking. His eyes weren't cold or mocking or even thoughtful. They were just…there…staring at her.

"Elaborate," he finally said.

Monroe cast her eyes around the room. Crane was listening with half an ear as he sewed away at the injured man's gaping wound. Mariano looked curious in spite of himself. The man with the broken nose still looked like he wanted to hurt her and the other goon simply appeared to be regretting his choice of a life of crime.

"Well," said Monroe, "we're talking about a man who, if rumours are to be believed, escaped from a police holding cell by planting a cell phone bomb in another living human being. He blew up an Assistant District Attorney! And from what I hear from your own henchmen, he has no problem sacrificing his own men either. Yeah, you guys gossip more than a bunch of thirteen-year-old girls," Monroe snapped at the glare shot at her by the goon whose nose she broke. "So what I'm saying is, going after the Joker, guns blazing, with no plan whatsoever, is pretty much a suicide mission."

The man would have lunged at her if the Black Mask hadn't stopped him. With the blood still on his face and the murderous look in his eyes, he should have looked terrifying. But for some reason, Monroe found herself fighting strongly to resist the urge to laugh instead. She decided that it was definitely a sign that she needed to get far away from the Black Mask and his merry little gang of cutthroats.

"What would you suggest we do then, O Fount of Wisdom?" asked the Black Mask, with just the slightest trace of mocking in his voice.

Monroe blinked. Right, she had gone and done it now, hadn't she? She would have slapped herself if she were not in a room full of men who were just waiting for her to screw up in some way. By speaking up, she had practically volunteered herself to plan the attack on the Joker.

"Well, if I were you," began Monroe, "I'd scout out his place to make sure he isn't out on some bank robbing spree or something. And then gas the place with some of the Doc's fear toxin. In all likelihood, it won't do anything to the Joker, but it'll certainly take care of his men. Even the odds a bit. If possible, I'd set up a couple of snipers around the building. Pick them off one by one, you know?" Monroe briefly wondered where all this was coming from but quickly dismissed the thought. It wasn't like the plan was actually going to work anyway. "And then when everyone else is dead, you can swoop in, shoot the Joker and ta da! Everyone goes home happy…except the Joker and his henchmen, who would be dead."

Silence reigned in the room as everyone stared at Monroe as if she were the one who had escaped from Arkham. She didn't blame them. She was starting to question her own sanity too.

Crane glared at her sulkily.

"What makes you think my toxin won't work on the Joker?"

The Black Mask burst out in laughter. Crane rounded on him, looking highly offended. Everyone else seemed unnerved at the sound coming from behind a faceless block of wood. Monroe bit down on her bottom lip to stifle a shiver.

"He just doesn't seem like someone who is afraid of anything," said Monroe in answer to Crane's question.

"Then we'll just have to instil some fear into him," said the Black Mask, his voice suddenly steely without a hint of laughter in it.

"How are we going to do that?" asked Mariano.

"Why don't we ask the Ghost?" suggested the Black Mask. Monroe was just willing to bet he was smirking behind his mask.

Monroe shrugged.

"You can't expect me to think of everything now, can you?"

The Black Mask chuckled.

"No, I suppose not. Doctor Crane, are you almost done over there?"

"Three more stitches should do it."

"Good. I'll need you to start immunising the rest of the men."

* * *

Nightfall found Monroe more or less alone in headquarters of the Black Mask. After opening her big mouth that morning, he and Crane had started to implement parts of her insane suggestions. The remainder of his henchmen were called into the Lab to receive their immunisation shots and he had sent four of them out to survey the Joker's hideout. The Black Mask didn't tell Monroe how he knew where the Joker was and she didn't ask.

Men came and went all throughout the afternoon. The Black Mask and Crane closeted themselves back in the Lab to work on whatever it was they were creating with the Blue-ringed Octopus venom. And Monroe and Teddy tried not to let his withdrawal symptoms drive them both crazy – he had taken to replacing his nicotine habit with bubble gum instead and the constant popping was slowly driving her up the wall.

Monroe was certain that nothing would really happen that day. Plans were being made but she was sure the chances of them being put into action that very evening were slim to none. Or so she had thought – until half and hour ago.

One of his henchmen had driven up with news that immediately had the Black Mask ordering the rest of his men to ready and arm themselves. The entire building was thrown into an uproar as men rushed to the makeshift armoury located next to the storage unit that served as the garage. Monroe was half-expecting to be dragged along as well, but the Black Mask surprised her by ordering that she stay behind; which of course meant that Teddy, in his usual role as her guard, was to remain with her as well. Leaving a skeleton crew of two other men to defend the building, the Black Mask, Crane and the rest of his goons piled into a series of vans that had not been in the garage earlier that day and drove off into the night.

"Why do you think he hates the Joker so much?" asked Monroe, as she sat down next to Teddy in the cafeteria ten minutes after everyone else has left. She ignored his arched brow. "Yes, I know _everyone_ hates the Joker, but you'd think the Black Mask, being Gotham's current Big Bad, would be able to hold his own or something."

Teddy shrugged, getting up to pull a beer out of the fridge.

"You know how the old saying goes," he grunted.

"This town ain't big enough for the both of us?" ventured Monroe in her best imitation of Wheeler Oakman in 'The Western Code'.

Teddy snorted; though it could have been a laugh. Monroe wasn't sure.

"Something like that."

"I overheard Crane saying the Black Mask was afraid of him." She glanced up as Teddy unceremoniously dropped a bottle of beer in front of her. She rolled her eyes at the look of warning in his. "It wasn't like I was purposely trying to eavesdrop on them! Did you know Crane suggested that they recruit the Joker? Said he could be of use to them."

"Sounds about right," said Teddy, taking a swig of his drink. "That's what this morning's disaster was about."

Monroe reached for her bottle, rolling it between her hands.

"Only a crazy person would ever consider something like that. The Joker's not exactly a team player."

"Well, no one ever said the Boss or the Doc was right in the head."

It was Monroe's turn to snort sarcastically. As she took a sip of her beer, she watched Teddy rummage through the cupboards for something that was halfway edible. The thing about living with criminals, all of whom were men, was that, most of the time, they forgot to go grocery shopping. She tipped her head back for a bigger swallow.

Monroe knew that now was probably the best chance she was ever going to get to make her escape. With only two guards, she was sure it wouldn't be too hard to slip past them. The problem was Teddy. She had been off her painkillers for almost two days, however Monroe was certain she already had enough medication hidden in her mattress to knock out a baby elephant. But she was smart enough to know that Teddy would bear the brunt of the blame when the Black Mask returned to find her gone. And Monroe didn't like thinking about the type of punishment the Black Mask would probably dole out for letting her get away. As much as she hated to admit to herself, she had grown rather fond of Teddy.

So, the question was, would Teddy go along with her plan? It would, of course, mean that he and whatever family he had would have to get out of Gotham. But surely that was a much more preferable choice to death. Monroe downed half her bottle of beer.

"Teddy?"

The man removed his head from the cupboard he was digging through and looked over his shoulder at her. Whatever he read on her face made him instantly suspicious.

"What?"

She tapped her bottle against her thigh.

"Do you have any other family in Gotham? Besides your sister, I mean."

Teddy let the cupboard swing close with a loud bang.

"Why do you want to know?"

Monroe offered him a small smile.

"Humour me?"

He took a swig of his beer, eyeing her over the bottle. And then he sighed.

"It's just my sister and her boy. My nephew," he explained. "He's a good kid."

Monroe nodded and placed her beer back on the table.

"I'm leaving tonight."

Teddy, who had been about to take another sip of his drink, dropped his hand back down to his side. Monroe ploughed on.

"I'm going to blow this place up and then I'm getting out of Gotham."

Teddy frowned.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I think you should take your sister and nephew and do the same."

Teddy stared at her. He stared at Monroe for a very long time. And then he lifted his beer up to his lips. He was gripping the bottle so hard Monroe was surprised the glass hadn't shattered in his hand.

"You make it sound so easy," he finally said. "The Boss will hunt us down."

"Stop calling him that," said Monroe as she looked around the cafeteria for something to write on. Spotting that morning's newspaper, she tore off a corner and turned to look for a pen. Teddy helpfully withdrew one from his pocket and held it out to her. Smiling, she scribbled down a number and handed the scrap of newspaper to him.

"What's this?"

"A bank account number," replied Monroe in a tone a voice that suggested she was speaking to a very slow child.

"I know what it _is_," growled Teddy. "But what's – "

"Use it," said Monroe, cutting him off. "There should be enough in there to set yourself up _comfortably_ anywhere in the country. And don't worry about the Black Mask. After tonight, he'll have bigger things to worry about."

"How can you be so sure of that?" asked Teddy sceptically.

"The Joker," Monroe counted off on her fingers, "my escape, this factory going boom…"

"I get it."

Monroe smiled.

"I could have just drugged you and left you here while the place went up in flames, you know."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better? And how did you even know I'd say yes?"

Monroe grinned.

"You just did. And I didn't."

Teddy opened his mouth and immediately shut it again. He looked down at the piece of paper in his hands.

"Anywhere in the country, huh?" He scrunched the paper in his hand and slid it into his pocket. "My nephew always wanted to go to Disneyland."

* * *

Commissioner Gordon sat next to the newly repaired Bat signal, nursing a half-empty cup of coffee. He had come up to the roof twenty-three minutes ago and there were only seven minutes left of his break. Running a hand through his hair, he scanned the surrounding rooftops again but failed to pick out any unexplainable shadows.

Today had not been a good day. What with the Joker's escape and then the reports of a shootout in the Narrows, Gordon was running low on the manpower he needed to follow all the leads that were coming in. He lifted his cup to his lips.

"Chatter on the radio says the Ghost was behind last night's break out too."

Gordon tightened his grip around his cup and drew in a deep breath. Forcing himself to exhale steadily, he turned to face the Batman.

"The evidence says otherwise. Besides we have an eyewitness. One Doctor Harleen Quinzel. The Joker did this on his own."

"Then why did he wait so long?" came the gravely voice of the masked vigilante.

"He needed time to gain her trust." Gordon took a sip of his cold coffee. "Quinzel confessed to letting him out of his straightjacket. The way she talked about him, you'd think she'd fallen in love."

The Batman remained silent.

"Something big's going down," said Gordon. "First the Scarecrow, now the Joker. And then there's the Ghost. Our lab techs say the venom that was stolen from the Wayne laboratories is one of the most deadly poisons in the world. Who knows what that man – "

"Woman."

Gordon stared at the Batman's shadowy silhouette.

"That's what the papers are saying. You're sure?"

"The Ghost is a woman," was all the Batman said.

Gordon sighed tiredly.

"That means the current profile we have on the Ghost is useless. I'll have to – "

But a sudden explosion cut Gordon off. Both men turned towards the plume of smoke in the distance, each feeling a pang of relief that it was not coming from the city centre.

"The docks," said the Batman.

"It'll take me a while to get my men out there," admitted Gordon.

But he received no reply.

Turning around, Gordon realised that he was alone on the rooftop.

* * *

Morgan was right. There was something strangely captivating about watching a building burn.

It had been painfully easy going about getting her belongings back. The men the Black Mask left behind were dutifully doing their rounds around the old factory. But it hadn't crossed their minds to include the interior of the building in their security route. After watching Teddy leave through the front gates on a made up errand, Monroe headed straight for the private office of the Black Mask. The lock was no challenge at all. She found her tools in a small black bag in the second drawer she jimmied open with a metal letter opener she found lying on his desk and her copy of 'A Clockwork Orange' on top of a filing cabinet. She paused briefly then, tempted to go through the files and blueprints scattered around the room, but knew that the longer she stayed there, the smaller her window of opportunity was growing. The Black Mask and his goons had been gone for a little over an hour and every minute she wasted meant the higher the chances were of her getting caught. Eventually, she settled for grabbing a set of blueprints that looked like they had been hastily put away. Monroe was willing to bet that it was what the Black Mask was pouring over right before whatever news it was had him and his men hurriedly arming themselves.

Making a short stop at her room, Monroe removed her pillow from its covering, emptied her stash of painkillers into the pillowcase and shoved the entire thing into the backpack containing her clothes she usually kept stashed under her cot. The blueprints followed suit, as did the bag of her tools, though she slipped her butterfly knife up her sleeve. Checking to make sure the other vial of Blue-ringed Octopus venom was still secreted away in her backpack, wrapped in a tank top and two shirts, Monroe shouldered it after pulling on her jacket.

Then she headed towards the cafeteria. From there, everything else had taken less than five minutes.

Monroe's guilty conscience kicked in just as she was at the door leading out to the garage. She stood holding a lighter in one hand and a packet of cigarettes in the other, trying to figure out how to warn the two guards to high tail it as far away from the factory as possible. And that was how they found her.

The goons had taken one look at her, noticed the backpack on her bag, and immediately trained their guns on her. It was the stupidest thing they could have done. Monroe was surprised they couldn't smell the gas because she hadn't used the wet towel trick that Morgan had. She hadn't seen the need to. She had tried to warn them against shooting at her but one of them decided to fire a warning shot over her head anyway. With that, any remorse she felt flew out the window; Monroe turned and ran – back into the building.

They followed her inside. Monroe knew that the gas wouldn't ignite until there was a certain air to gas ratio. She didn't know what this ratio was or how long it would take to reach it, but she didn't plan to stay around long enough to find out, especially since the guards had decided to continue shooting at her. Racing towards a window that opened onto the river, Monroe tipped out the few cigarettes that were in the packet into her hand, lit them all at once, and threw them over her shoulder. If the muzzle flash from the goons' guns didn't ignite the gas, the cigarettes eventually would. And if the men were in the building when it happened, it would be karma, Monroe had reasoned.

She didn't slow down when she saw the window in front of her. Increasing her pace, she vaulted out of it, hit the concrete on the other side hard, and kept running towards the river. They didn't follow her out, choosing to shoot at her from the window instead. Monroe found out then how much better shots they were when they weren't running. A bullet came close to taking off her ear, grazing her cheek instead. And then, when she was three feet away from the end of the dock, one of their shots struck her in the back of her right thigh.

Monroe had never been shot before and it was hard to make sense of what had happened. At first it had simply felt like a sharp slap to the back of her leg. For a few seconds, she felt nothing – and then the pain flared up. Her knee gave way beneath her but instead of succumbing to the pain, Monroe stubbornly forced herself to hobble the rest of the way. She didn't so much jump as fall into the river.

It was whilst Monroe was underwater that the gas finally ignited. When she came up for air, the old make up factory was burning merrily away. No one was shooting at her any more.

So there she was, threading water in the Gotham River and losing pints of blood by the minute. The flames were a riveting sight and a part of her could understand why her foster sister had wanted to witness the explosion all those years ago.

It was the second explosion that jolted her out of her reverie. Monroe supposed that the flames must have finally reached the armoury, as the fireball that erupted was four times the size of the blaze that was already burning.

An attempt to use her legs resulted in a flash of pain that almost had her going under again. With only the use of her arms, heading back to shore was a slow and tedious process. But Monroe knew the longer she stayed in the water, the more likely it would be that her gun shot wound would contract some sort of infection. Besides, she wanted that bullet out of her leg as soon as possible. She had to climb a wall of tires, used as a bumper between the dock and a ship's hull, to get ashore, but Monroe eventually made it back onto dry land, more or less in one piece.

Flopping onto her back earned Monroe another jolt of pain up the back of her leg. She swore. She tried to push herself up but it seemed that her muscles had given up on her. She groaned. And then she started hearing things.

It started out softly; just the faintest of sounds amongst the crackling of burning wood and shattering glass not too far away. But as Monroe laid there, drenched to her bones, the sound grew louder, separating itself from the aftermath of the explosion. It sounded almost like…applause.

Monroe turned her head. She had climbed back onto an open part of the docks. To her right was the river, with several small boats moored to the dock. To her left were several warehouses and factories. And there on the road that led out into the city, sat one of the vans she had seen earlier that evening. Except now it was ridden with bullet holes and the men standing around it were not familiar at all. But the man walking towards her certainly was.

Tall and purple-suited, with a Glasgow grin to rival that of the Cheshire cat, there, before her, stood the Joker in all his green-haired, grease painted glory. And he was clapping.

The applause trailed off and his tongue darted out across his lips. He tilted his head to the side, and watched her, birdlike. And then he smacked his lips, and said –

"Love your work!"

Monroe swore again.

* * *

Love-ly . Love-lyLovely45**: I love, love, LOVE your review! It totally made sense. The fact that you find Monroe human and think she blends in well with Nolan's Batverse is such a compliment (It also means she's not a Mary-Sue. Yay!) How great is The Killing Joke? Although I don't usually like the comics that try to explain why the Joker does the things he does, this one totally makes sense and takes you on such an emotional rollercoaster.**

Tibli**: Well, then I really appreciate the fact that you bookmarked this. Aww, Clifford IS a good doggie! Why can't my dog be more like him? But no, she's got to try to sit on my arm whenever I'm trying to type. Silly girl. Thanks for the kudos on the filler. I'm so glad you like it!**

**I'm not sure I'm all that happy with this one but it's slightly longer than usual. And yes, Monroe can never catch a break. But she will! Eventually…And what happened to the Black Mask? Dun dun dun! **

**Hope you guys enjoy the chapter!**

**Random info:**

**A wet towel over a leaking gas pipe does hide the smell of carbon monoxide. I don't know if it works the same way with cooking gas, but let's just assume it does.**

**Other than the fact that the officer named Erikson had family in Gotham General before the Joker blew it up, there's not much information on the character (unless I missed something). So I'm making things up.**

**Please remember to leave a review!**

**Much love,**

**Scribbles**


	8. 7

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who left a review or put this story on their favourites/alert list. You guys really have no idea how happy it makes me. I'm all giddy like a schoolgirl. **

**I do apologise for how long this took. I meant to get this out sooner but a series of (unfortunate?) events kind of took over my life. And then work came up. But I'm on a month's break now so…YAY! UPDATE!**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.**

* * *

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"_Thus passes the glory of the world"_

...

By Scribbles-Dementia

...

7

* * *

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Dark eyes stared at Monroe, unblinking. She watched as his tongue poked at the inside of his mouth, teasing his scars. It was strange how much less intimidating they were with his trademark make up on. It was like she could convince herself the scars weren't real, simply prosthetics. It was a ridiculous thought and Monroe decided that her blood loss was addling her brain.

"I don't have one."

She turned away, squinting at the streetlight that was glaring into her eyes. Of all the places she could have come back ashore, it had to be bang smack in front of the Joker and under a streetlamp. It was just so damn…perfect. Monroe wondered if her luck was finally running out.

"Are you going to lie there all night?"

He was standing over her now, pressing his lips together, and doing quite a good job of blocking out the light. He didn't have a weapon in his hands but who knew what he kept hidden in his suit pockets.

"Maybe." She looked up at him, wondering if she should bother getting up. "Are you going to kill me?"

The Joker blinked.

"Now why would I do that?"

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. Monroe was willing to bet he had at least one knife of some sort in his pockets and but she couldn't even bring herself to try to roll away. The adrenaline she was running on was finally draining away and she was both physically and mentally tired now. This also meant that the filter between her brain and her mouth was pretty much non-existent by this point.

"Well…because you're you?"

It wasn't said maliciously or sarcastically. But it was enough to make the Joker snap his head back and frown down at her. It occurred to Monroe that he looked a lot like a disappointed parent chastising a naughty child. She couldn't help it. Monroe giggled.

"You have no sense of self-preservation, do you?"

It was more of a statement than a question. And he did not sound amused. Monroe watched as the Joker withdrew a switchblade from his pockets.

"Funny, that's what he said."

The Joker sat back on his heels, flicked the blade open and pushed his hair out of his face. His tongue clicked against his front teeth.

"And who is _he_?"

But Monroe was no longer paying attention. Her eyes followed the glint of the switchblade as it swung, lazily, back and forth. She didn't see his hand strike out until he had her cheeks in a vicelike grip and was jerking her head towards him.

"Don't make me repeat myself."

Dark eyes bore into green. It was enough to momentarily sober Monroe up.

"The Black Mask," she said. "Because, you know, he wears this black…mask…"

The absurdity of what she said had Monroe biting her lip in vain before bursting into fresh peals of laughter. She instinctively jerked her head out of his hand as her laughter grew, cutting her jaw on his knife in the process; not that she noticed. The Joker watched her for a while before exhaling sharply in exasperation. Monroe clutched at her sides; her abs were beginning to hurt.

"Sorry," she gasped between giggles, though she did not look the slightest bit apologetic. In fact, Monroe wasn't quite sure what she was apologising for. "I got shot," she tried to explain. "I'm delusional." Her eyes shifted as something moved in the shadows. "There's a giant bat behind you."

The Joker spun around in time to catch the Batman swooping down to take out two of the men he had left standing by the van. The caped crusader made short work of the third. And then it was just the two of them standing on the docks – with Monroe lying by the Joker's feet, a giggling mess.

"It's the Batman," she said, rather unnecessarily.

It occurred to Monroe that she had been in Gotham for over two weeks and this was the first time she'd properly set eyes on the Batman. She didn't count that night at the Diamond Exchange since she'd only seen him from afar then. A part of her felt strangely offended. Stealing a few priceless artefacts weren't enough to warrant his attention, but threaten the lives of an entire city and look who comes running?

Monroe knew she wasn't making sense. But things had stopped making sense to her for a while now.

"Step away from the girl," came the Batman's low voice, like metal crunching on gravel. It was a stark contrast to the Joker's.

"Well hello to you too," came the Joker's reply, the 'h' aspirated and breathy. Monroe didn't need to look at him to know he was grinning. She watched as he pulled another blade from his other pocket, this time a straight razor with a nasty looking edge. "Looks like we have ourselves a – uh – Mexican standoff."

The Batman stared him down. The tension in the air was palpable. It made Monroe glad that she was incapacitated and was basically being ignored. Sure, the only reason she had come to Gotham in the first place was to take on the Batman, but she wasn't crazy enough to do so with a bullet in her leg and several pints of her blood on the pavement. For the time being, she was content to simply sit back and watch.

And it was a marvellous sight; better than any movie fight sequence she had ever seen. The Joker struck first, launching himself at the Batman without making the slightest attempt to protect himself. Monroe didn't need to be a martial arts expert to know that, out of the two opponents, the Batman was vastly more skilled. He fought with the precision and focus that spoke of years of training. Theoretically, he had the upper hand.

But the Joker was no ordinary opponent. There was no method behind his attacks. Nothing he did made sense; there was no way to predict what his next move would be. And that made him a far more dangerous fighter than the Batman would ever be.

The Joker's laughter echoed along the docks as one of the Batman's blows narrowly missed him. The straight razor flashed under the streetlight, striking the masked vigilante across the chest but barely making a dent on his body armour. The Joker immediately followed this up with his switchblade. Just as it looked like the knife was about to do real damage, the Batman twisted out of its way, using his cape to catch the blade instead. In one swift move, he twisted the Joker's arm behind his back, delivered a quick but brutal blow to the back of his knees and pinned him to the ground. However, if the Joker's giggles were anything to go by, he sounded like he was enjoying himself.

"Ooh…_now_ we're talking!" he tittered, sounding repulsively vulgar.

The Batman growled before striking the Joker in the back of the head. The laughter this time round sounded closer to a groan. But the Joker's voice when he spoke was still amused.

"Didn't you remember anything I told you about the head?"

With an animalistic roar, the Batman buried his fingers in the Joker's hair, yanked up the other man's head and slammed it back into the cement. They weren't very far from where Monroe was laying, yet the crack that reached her ears still sounded impossibly loud. She frowned through the fog creeping over her vision. Did the Batman just kill the Joker?

But then she heard the chuckles, starting softly before developing into a delirious cacophony that hurt her head. The Joker was very much alive.

"See," said the Joker, his voice screaming 'I told you so'. "Nothing."

As the Batman pulled him off the ground, Monroe could see the blood pouring freely from his nose, the bright red a garish contrast to his white greasepaint. She watched; feeling strangely detached as the vigilante threw the Joker into the nearby lamppost. His laughter faltered for a moment as he struggled to his feet, one arm gripping his side. Monroe was sure he'd cracked a rib or two. But then he was grinning again, his tongue flicking out to taste his blood on his lips.

"Come on, Bats," he taunted, the nickname ending in a harsh hiss. "Is that all you've got?"

It was as if the Batman knew what the Joker wanted. Monroe noticed how he almost visibly withdrew, looking at the other man in disgust.

"I'm not going to kill you."

The Joker chuckled, wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

"You – uh – say that now. But everyone has their _breaking point_." The last two words were heavily emphasised and Monroe could have sworn that the caped crusader flinched at hearing them. "Even you."

Her eyes darted towards something that moved behind the Batman. One of the Joker's thugs had regained consciousness and was attempting to sneak up on the costumed vigilante. She didn't know what possessed her to do what she did, but an overwhelming feeling of unfairness had washed over her at the sight.

"Hey!" she protested, weakly.

But it was enough. The Batman whirled around in time to avoid what would have been a near fatal shot. The thug put up more a fight this time around though it still wasn't much. Monroe almost felt sorry for him – until the Joker gave her something else to worry about.

He moved swiftly for someone who just had the crap beaten out of him. One moment he was propping himself up against the streetlamp, and then, in the space of a blink, he was towering over her. Of course, Monroe knew that logically this didn't really make sense, unless he could teleport. But, at that particular moment, not a lot of things were making sense. Her vision blurred and her blood rushed to her head as the Joker suddenly hauled her to her feet. It took a disturbingly long time for her to re-orientate herself. When the world finally stopped spinning, Monroe realised two things: she couldn't feel her right leg, and the Joker had a knife to her throat. She blinked. Was he using her as a human shield?

The Batman turned around just in time to realise what the Joker was doing. His eyes narrowed behind his cowl.

"Who's it going to be, Bats?" called the Joker. "Me? Or the girl?"

Monroe wondered why he hadn't told the Batman who she was yet – that she was the Ghost, that she had sprung Crane from Arkham. She felt the knife break skin, could feel blood slowly dripping down her neck. She frowned. The blade had better be clean. She couldn't remember the last time she had her tetanus shot.

The Batman stood before them, unmoving.

"Come on, come on, come on!" yelled the Joker.

The feel of cold metal against the inside of her wrist reminded Monroe of her own butterfly knife she had secreted there.

"Let the girl go," growled the Batman, his voice low and dangerous.

The way they talked about her, as if she were some damsel in distress, infuriated Monroe beyond reason. If the Batman wasn't about to do something, she would. Monroe wriggled in the Joker's grasp but he paid her little mind, simply tightening his grip on her. The movement jogged her knife loose, the familiar weight of it sliding down her sleeve and into her waiting hand. Neither man noticed it, busy as they were staring each other down. In a move she had performed a million times before, Monroe flipped the blade open with one hand, catching the other side of the hilt in the same fluid motion. And then she buried it in the Joker's thigh.

The Joker cried out, more in surprise than pain, and unceremoniously released her. Without him holding her up, Monroe's legs gave out under her and she collapsed like a rag doll. In that same instant, the Batman tackled the Joker. Monroe had left her butterfly knife in the Joker's leg and he pulled it out now and stabbed it into the Batman's side.

Monroe rolled onto her side, spared the pair one last glance and decided, since they weren't paying her any attention, she was going to save herself. The van was still sitting there and, in spite of the bullet holes, Monroe knew it would work. How else had the Joker and his thugs gotten from wherever they were to the docks? Turning her back on them, Monroe crawled towards the van. It took her an agonisingly long time to reach the vehicle and the effort of pulling herself up into the driver's seat left Monroe feeling light-headed. But she stubbornly reached for the screwdriver that had been shoved into the van's ignition, threw the vehicle into drive, slammed her left leg onto the clutch and tore away from the docks with both and driver's and passenger's side doors flapping open. She did not once look into the rear view mirror to see if the duelling duo made any attempt to stop her. Let them sort each other out.

Monroe had no idea where she was going. She knew she needed to get to a hospital but she had no clue where the nearest one was. Instead she drove towards the blinking lights she could see in the distance. Lights meant people. If she got to a more populated area she'd be able to get help. At least that was what reason was telling her.

However, Monroe never made it very far. Just as she neared a busier part of the city, her loss of blood and the rest of that night's activities finally caught up with her. The last thing Monroe remembered was attempting to make a left turn before her vision faded to black.

* * *

It was the incessant beeping that eventually woke Monroe. One of the first things she noticed was that her right arm itched. When she tried to scratch it, she realised that the cause of the irritation was a needle in her arm. And then she realised that it was attached to a drip. Monroe blinked.

She was in a hospital ward.

Monroe frowned. Why was she in a hospital?

Casting her eyes around her surroundings, Monroe realised that she was in a public ward. There were five other beds in the room with her; three of them occupied; with the ones directly opposite and next to her empty. Of her three roommates, only one of them appeared to be awake.

The second thing Monroe noticed was that her right wrist was handcuffed to the railing of the hospital bed. She groaned.

"Good morning, sunshine."

Monroe turned to look at the boy lying two beds away from her. He was a young African American and seemed to be around twelve years old. He had a cute little turned up nose and intelligent eyes. She noted all this almost subconsciously, as her gaze was drawn to the unusual dip in his blankets. The boy smiled when he noticed her staring, though there was a hint of steel behind it. Lifting the blanket, he revealed a bandaged up stump where his left leg should have been.

"Boating accident," he said by way of explanation.

"That sucks," said Monroe automatically. The boy shrugged. "Why are you in here anyway?"

"What do you mean?" asked the boy.

But Monroe could tell he knew what she was trying to get at. She jerked her chin at the man in the bed opposite him. He was hooked up to a respirator and a heart monitor, which was where all the beeping was coming from. His entire head was also swathed in bandages.

"Gang tats." She nodded at the man in the next bed. This one had his entire right in a cast and suspended off the bed. "Prison ink." She lifted her right arm, the handcuffs clinking against the metal railing, as if emphasising her point.

The boy grinned.

"I'm a John Doe." He paused. "And the leg may not have been an accident."

Monroe stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. It would be hypocritical of her to try to talk him out of an early criminal career. Heck, she was only two years younger than him when she started. No, that lecture was best left to someone else.

"Do you know what they did to my stuff?"

"Fuck if I know."

A nurse walked in at that point, threatened to wash the boy's mouth out with soap, and stomped her way to Monroe's bed. Snatching up the chart that hung at the foot of the bed, the nurse noted something down with a scowl, checked the drip, made another note and then finally looked up at her.

"We removed the bullet. You lost a lot of blood but you should make a full recovery." She did not sound too happy about that fact.

"Um, thank you."

The nurse sniffed, jammed the chart back into its holder and stormed back out of the ward. But she stopped just as she reached the door, turning to relay, or more specifically spit out, a message.

"The police want to talk to you. I'll tell them you're awake."

The boy grinned at Monroe.

"She likes you."

Monroe snorted.

"Do you know how long I've been out?"

"They wheeled you in two nights ago."

So she had been out for an entire day, unless she hadn't been found and brought to the hospital immediately. But Monroe remembered having reached a busier part of Gotham before she crashed into – what exactly had she hit? She hoped it hadn't been another car. Monroe decided she would ask the police officer when he came to question her.

Monroe spent the rest of her morning trading insults with the boy, whose name was Todd. Strangely, he didn't bother asking for hers. They were halfway through their lunch when the officer finally made an appearance. He looked to be a rookie, which told Monroe that they didn't consider her that big of a threat. Which meant that they didn't know who she was. This was more of a routine thing, which made sense since the van she was in had been riddled with bullet holes. She picked up her spoon and attacked her jello. It was a bit of a battle since she couldn't use her right hand.

The rookie officer dragged an uncomfortable looking plastic chair up to Monroe's bed, pulled out a pen and notepad, and nervously cleared his throat. Monroe shot him an encouraging smile.

"Do you happen to know what I crashed into?"

The man looked taken aback, the question he was about to ask momentarily forgotten. He cleared his throat again before answering her.

"A fire hydrant."

Monroe shoved another spoonful of jello in her mouth.

"That's good," said Monroe, speaking around the gelatine treat. "At least I didn't kill anybody."

The officer shook his head.

"No. No one was hurt. Well, except you." That seemed to remind him of the reason he was there. "You were shot."

"Yes. Yes, I was."

His pen hovered expectantly over the lined yellow notepad.

"Do you know who shot you?"

"No," said Monroe honestly. She couldn't tell him for sure which of the two goons the Black Mask had left behind had shot her. The officer looked disappointed.

"Do you know why anyone would want to shoot you?"

Monroe gave that question some serious though.

"I suppose there are any number of reasons," she eventually said. "I've been told I can be very annoying."

Monroe knew she was being deliberately obtuse and almost felt guilty. Honestly, the man was more nervous than…Monroe frowned; she couldn't think of an appropriate simile. It irritated her for some reason. She decided to change topics.

"I had a backpack with me. Do you know where it is?"

The officer tapped his pen against his notepad, as if trying to decide if he should answer her. Monroe stared at him expectantly.

"The hospital staff are holding on to it at the moment. Just in case we need it for evidence."

"Evidence for what?"

The rookie cleared his throat. Again.

"It's just procedure, Ma'am."

Monroe absentmindedly turned the rest of her jello to mush. Her eyes flickered to the aviators in his uniform's front pocket.

"Are those standard issue?"

The officer sighed in defeat. Monroe definitely felt guilty now. He really wasn't very good at interrogating people.

"We've got your prints," he said as he put away his pen and pad. Monroe looked at her hands she couldn't see any traces of ink. Someone must have cleaned her fingers after she'd been printed. "We're running it through AFIS now. Should get a match soon. We'll probably have more questions for you then."

She smiled.

"Well, you know where to find me."

Before the rookie left, Monroe asked him to help her readjust her pillow. He had to lean in quite close to her to reach it since she had somehow managed to manoeuvre it against the bed railing. She thanked him and apologised for not having been more helpful. The officer almost snorted but turned it into a cough at the very last minute.

"We'll be in touch, Ma'am."

And then he was gone.

Monroe picked up her spoon again and finished her jello.

When a male nurse came by later to clear their lunch trays, Monroe asked him if he could get her a copy of both yesterday's and that day's paper. He told her he'd see what he could do, seemingly reluctant to fulfil the request of a suspected criminal. But Monroe eventually got the newspapers and she settled back to catch up on what had been going on in Gotham since her run in with the fire hydrant.

Bruce Wayne had apparently purchased an island off the coast of Greenland and rumour was rife that he was planning on turning it into a theme park. There had been a fire in an abandoned theatre on the same night Monroe blew up the Black Mask's headquarters. But the building had apparently been condemned so no one was harmed. And it saved the city some money in tearing it down. No major robberies had been committed but someone had held up a late night convenience store, making away with a case of beer and ten dollars fifty-eight cents in cash.

The cranky nurse came by again before dinner, made yet another note on Monroe's chart, glared at Todd and left as abruptly as she had arrived. Throughout the day, the ex-con had woken up twice, both times for food. The gangbanger had not moved at all.

That night, Monroe lay awake counting the number of tiles on the ceiling until she was sure everyone else in the ward was asleep. Her left hand burrowed under her blanket; locating the aviators she had lifted from the rookie police officer when he had helped readjust her pillow. She snapped off the thin hands of the sunglass' frame and proceeded to pick the lock on her handcuffs. It was slow going as she had to twist her right wrist into awkward positions to hold onto the makeshift picks, but after nearly forty-five minutes, she heard the satisfying click of the cuffs falling opening.

Monroe rubbed at her sore wrist, pulled out the needle in her arm, listened to make sure that the breathing of her roommates remained even, lowered the bed's railing and then swung her legs off the side. Now was the moment of truth, would her legs be able to support her weight. She slipped off the bed and almost fell flat on her face. This was going to take a while.

Half an hour had past before her legs felt strong enough to take a couple of steps. The pain emanating from her right thigh was excruciating but Monroe knew how to block it out. As long as the stitches held she wouldn't bleed to death. Another seven minutes and she was almost at the doorway of the ward.

"Good luck."

Monroe's head snapped around to the nearest bed. Todd was peering up at her, eyes half lidded with sleep.

"I'll look you up when I get outta here," he said, stifling a yawn.

She smiled at him.

"I cover my tracks pretty well, kid."

"A name would help."

Monroe looked at the boy. He was smart enough that she knew he'd survive Gotham, even if he were missing a leg. But he was raw around the edges and could do with a bit of proper training on some of the finer arts of the world's seedy underbelly. She could picture him as Aiden's apprentice – even if Aiden wasn't _technically_ a criminal – knew he would learn quickly, and soon become a force to be reckoned with. Her smile widened.

"It's Monroe."

"Monroe," echoed Todd. "No last name?"

"That is my last name."

He nodded, as if satisfied.

"I'll see you around."

"Take care of yourself, Todd."

Monroe propped herself up in the doorway, in full sight of whoever should happen to come by. But the hall outside was empty. There was, however, a convenient wheelchair near the door directly opposite her. And she was never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Dropping into the wheelchair, Monroe started wheeling herself towards the far end of the hallway, away from the nurse's station and towards a service elevator. It was there that she ran into her first snag.

An elderly janitor stood by the elevator waiting for it to come down from the floors above. Monroe wheeled herself around his cleaning cart. It hid her from view should someone at the nurse's station peer around the corner and look down the hall. The man lifted an amused brow.

"Are you supposed to be out of bed?"

The fact that he was smiling kindly down at her indicated that he had not seen which wardroom she had come out from. Monroe plastered on her most innocent little girl face, which made her look more like a mischievous imp than anything else, and put a finger to her lips. The man chuckled.

"I don't think the nurses will be too happy when they find out you're missing."

_You don't know the half of it_, thought Monroe.

"But it's so boring in my room. There's no TV and everyone's sleeping."

The elevator dinged as it reached their floor and the doors slid open. It was – thankfully – empty. The janitor pushed his cart in and looked over his shoulder as she followed him in.

"All right, I won't tell on you this time. But you should head to bed soon. You'll recover faster. And then you can get out of here."

Monroe grinned and saluted him.

"Yes, sir!"

The first floor was busier than the one she had been on but the janitor good-naturedly agreed to provide cover until she reached the open courtyard where patients were allowed to wander during daylight hours. He unlocked the glass doors for her and waved goodbye as she wheeled herself out. That was where Monroe hit her second snag.

A cold wind was blowing that night and the only protection she had against it were the flimsy hospital clothes she was wearing. Fortunately, it was not the open back kind, which Monroe was sure they used only for patients heading into surgery, but the material was itchy and provided no warmth at all. She had no idea where they had taken her backpack so she didn't have any of her tools with her and Monroe was beginning to wish she had kept her makeshift picks instead of leaving them on the bed. Oh well, desperate times called for desperate measures. And she could always pick up new equipment. The electronic autodialer Aiden had given her would be harder to replace. But she had survived well enough before she started using it and she would survive well enough on her own now.

Rolling down the ramp that the building's architect had thoughtfully designed for the courtyard, Monroe wheeled herself down a gravel-strewn path that wound around the hospital building and took her out of sight of the courtyard's glass doors. The path eventually connected with a cement pavement that brought her round to the loading bay at the back of the hospital. She passed several overflowing garbage bins before pausing at one to retrieve a wire hanger that was sticking out of it. There were two nurses, though they could have been interns, taking a smoke break in one of the open bay areas. Monroe waited the excruciatingly long twelve minutes it took for them to finish before wheeling herself as fast as she could across the open space.

The loading bay led out to a private parking lot for the numerous doctors, nurses and interns working at the hospital. Monroe cast one cautious look behind her before scanning the lot for a potential getaway vehicle. As much as she would have loved driving away in the beautiful red Ferrari parked a few spots away from her, Monroe knew that the car's anti-theft safeguards would definitely defeat her measly coat hanger. What she needed was an older car, something considerably less flashy than the sports car.

Monroe spotted just the thing at the far end of the parking lot. Its distance from the hospital doors and the fact that one of its door s had a huge dent in it told her that it probably belonged to an intern who couldn't afford to have his or her car stolen. Monroe pushed aside what little guilt she had, telling herself that she'd abandon it in an area where it was sure to be found by the police.

The straightened wire hanger did its job beautifully and three minutes of working at the wires under the dashboard had the vehicle sputtering to life. Tossing the hanger onto the passenger seat, Monroe transferred herself from the wheelchair into the driver's seat, checked her rear view mirror, and tore out of the hospital parking lot.

No one came after her.

Monroe settled back into her seat, which smelled suspiciously of greasy fast food and tried to sort out her thoughts. The bullet was out of her leg and; despite the seemingly chronic pain, she would recover. That was good. The Joker had managed to track down what was left of the Black Mask's headquarters. He knew she was working, albeit reluctantly, for the Black Mask, who she knew wanted the Joker dead. There had been no news in the papers of his fight with the Batman, which most probably meant that he still hadn't been caught yet. That was bad.

So logically, her first order of business should be getting out of Dodge. So to speak.

Making a sharp U-turn at the next set of traffic lights, Monroe turned the car towards the direction of the Gotham City Central Station.

* * *

**I'm not sure I like this chapter. The long break's put me in a funk. But Monroe needed her independence back. At least for the time being.**

Latenightreader**: Ooh! You're back! Yes, Monroe has a bit of a potty mouth. Fortunately, it only happens when she's under stress. Or pissed off. Thank you so much for your review. And your colourful words of praise! I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it. The only way I can express myself is…with a TACKLEGLOMP! -glomps-**

Tibli**: I read somewhere that when a dog sits on you they're trying to establish their dominance. We had the talk and Bones only sits on me occasionally now. She's taken to perching on top of the couch. Like a cat. Thank you for the review. And sorry about the banged knee. Don't you just love surprises?**

Btch**: No, I'm afraid I'm not very kind to my OCs. But that's how I express my affection. So really, I love Monroe.**

**Thanks again to everyone who left a review, added this to their faves or put it on alert. I'd tell you 'I love you guys' times infinity to the power to ten but that would be sappy and probably a little bit creepy.**

**Feed my habit!**

**Much love,**

**Scribbles**


	9. 8

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed and/or put this on their favourites/alerts list. VIRTUAL HUGS ALL AROUND! Ahem, yes…**

**I seriously considered holding this chapter hostage since the last one only had 4 reviews. But I hate authors who do that and wasn't about to become one of them. Plus, I rather like this chapter. So…read on!**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.**

* * *

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"_Thus passes the glory of the world"_

...

By Scribbles-Dementia

...

8

* * *

Judd Mariano shivered as he made his way down the draughty corridor. The walls were lined with a series of oil portraits, all of them featuring men and women with attractive dark looks. Their haughty eyes seemed to follow him down the hall but Mariano knew that it was just an optical trick. Still, knowing that didn't alleviate the feeling he had of being watched.

They were in some pretty deep shit. It had been two days since the Joker had handed them their asses on a platter; two days since they narrowly escaped being burned to death. His own burns were still raw and he had to sleep lying on his belly but at least he could walk. The same couldn't be said for Ed McGuffin, the only one besides himself, the Doc and the Boss who had made it out of that theatre alive. McGuffin's burns were so bad the muscles in his legs would probably never recover. The Doc, who had suffered most from smoke inhalation, currently sounded like a seventy year old chain smoker. And as for the Boss…

Mariano took a deep breath to steady his nerves as he approached the double oak doors at the end of the corridor. His mouth was suddenly very dry and his hands were beginning to shake. The Boss had already shot the two mob doctors Mariano had managed to coax into treating them. To say that the man was in a bad mood was putting it lightly. But he was bringing good news. So, hopefully, his intrusion into the Boss' inner sanctum wouldn't earn him a bullet in the brain.

"Um, Boss?" Mariano called out tentatively. He had learnt from experience that knocking simply prompted him to shoot first and ask for identification later.

"What?" came the gruff bark.

"Just heard back from our man down in LA, Boss."

There came the sound of shuffling, a brief moment of silence and then came the invitation to enter. Mariano forced himself to stop shaking, grasped the door handle firmly in his hand, and entered the private offices of the Black Mask.

The flames that had consumed the Joker's hideout had not spared the Black Mask. In fact, he had been the one closest to the crazed clown when he had whipped out a can of hairspray and a lighter and used the makeshift flamethrower to set his own headquarters on fire. The initial gunfight that had ensued when they surrounded the theatre had taken out almost a third of their men. The fire had annihilated them.

Mariano cleared his throat and kept his eyes trained on the worn out carpet as he relayed his message.

"He's located Selwyn and wants to know what your orders are."

He heard a creak as the Black Mask shifted in his chair. Mariano quickly checked to make sure that the Boss wasn't reaching for a gun before returning to staring at the carpet.

After the disaster at the old theatre, they had returned to their headquarters by the docks to find it surrounded by Gotham's finest, several fire engines and a few nosey reporters. The Boss was Not Happy. With their hideout compromised he had no choice but to direct what was left of his crew to the only other place that was secure – his childhood home in the Palisades.

The mansion was not as derelict as other buildings that had been left uninhabited as long, mainly due to the fact that the Sionis family had at one time been very influential in Gotham. The house was in a state of limbo; all the furniture covered in dust protectors and the gardens left to grow amuck, as the landholder rights were listed under the Sionis family name and the city's governing officials were having a hard time finding a legal loophole around that. Roman Sionis, the prodigal son, had the rather annoying habit of disappearing for years on end but popping up every time an attempt was made to file a death certificate in his name. An inspection team was sent up every year to make sure that the building was still liveable but other than that, nothing else could really be done to maintain the mansion with the permission of Roman Sionis. Even the security codes for all the locks had been left unchanged and Mariano was spared the unpleasant task to scaling the boundary walls to let them in.

It was, however, left to Mariano to find out what exactly had happened at the docks and to locate a doctor who valued his life more that his moral principles. Even so, the doctor couldn't change the facts, no matter how much the Boss wanted him to – the fire had seared his mask onto his face and to surgically remove it would kill him. The second doctor had tried but the pain had driven the Boss to shoot him.

A few questions posed to the fire fighters and police officers on the Boss' payroll revealed that there were only two bodies found in the warehouse and no survivors. Both the corpses were male and neither of them were large enough to fit the description of the man that been placed in charge of guarding The Ghost.

Mariano heard the sound of glass against metal and winced. He had apparently interrupted the Boss in the middle of his thrice-daily morphine injection.

"I don't take kindly to betrayal, Mr. Mariano." The Black Mask sighed, a harsh grating sound, as the drug took effect. "I invited Mr. Selwyn to be a part of my family and he repays me by allowing that _girl_ to destroy everything that Doctor Crane and I have been working towards. If the good Doctor hadn't had the foresight to have a backup lab somewhere else in the city, I would – " The sound of breaking glass cut him off. There was a brief moment of silence before the Black Mask spoke again. "Tell him I want Mr. Selwyn _eviscerated_."

Mariano swallowed audibly.

"What about the woman and the kid?"

He heard a loud snap as the Black Mask undid the rubber tourniquet he had tied around his upper arm. His blood ran cold at the man's reply.

"What about them?"

Mariano nodded jerkily, unsure of how else to respond. He turned to leave before another thought occurred to him.

"And The Ghost?"

The quiet and bitter laughter that answered him had Mariano struggling not to soil himself.

"Oh, don't you worry, Mr. Mariano. I have special plans for my girl."

* * *

Monroe sat in her stolen car in the parking lot of the Gotham City Central Station, staring blindly out the windscreen and having a rather heated mental debate with herself. The little kleptomaniac in her, the side of her psyche that had her chasing the next big adrenaline rush, was all for remaining in Gotham, recovering, and facing down the elusive Batman then. If a madman like the Joker could take him on then surely she could as well. The more rational part of her brain, the side that had, thus far, kept her alive and out of prison, was voting for a fast exit, stage left. She groaned, dropping her head to rest on the steering wheel. The voices needed to shut up so she could think. Though technically they weren't really voices since it was all her. Monroe lifted her head, and dropped it again, not even bothering to cushion the impact.

"Get a grip," she hissed, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the empty car. Monroe exhaled forcefully, a long and steady flow of air that did not really do anything to clear her mind. "See? You're not even thinking straight anymore. Get your head screwed on right and then come back."

Monroe nodded, as if that action ended all other discussions she might be tempted to have with herself, and got out of the car. She was still dressed in the thin hospital pyjamas and was barefooted. Armed with her wire hanger, Monroe headed around towards the trunk of the car to wreak havoc on the lock. Unfortunately, it did not yield much treasure aside from a large, black umbrella and a couple half-empty cans of spray paint. In the end, a thorough search of the rest of the vehicle earned Monroe an oversized and smelly gym jacket and a mismatched pair of flip-flops. Monroe shrugged; beggars couldn't be choosers and all that.

The jacket did wonders in disguising her figure and it even had a hood, which she pulled up to hide her face. Tucking a can of black spray paint down the back of the waistband of her pyjama pants and using the umbrella as a walking stick, Monroe made her way towards the entrance of the train station.

It was surprisingly crowded considering the time of night. But then again, Monroe supposed that, like New York, Gotham never really slept. Bad things tended to happen in the city if you closed your eyes for too long. The hustle and bustle was perfect for her purposes however, as no one was really paying any attention to the oddly dressed young woman. She managed to lift two purses and a wallet before she even reached the small all-purpose store the train station had on its premises. Keeping only the cash and throwing everything else into a trash bin, Monroe purchased a can of hairspray, a bottle of baby powder and a pair of aviator sunglasses; similar to the ones she had 'borrowed' from the police officer.

The station's directional signs did nothing to point her towards the lost and found office but Monroe eventually found it. There was a counter with a bored looking teenage boy behind it and a locked door with a keypad beyond that. Monroe grinned.

Kyle Strait was having a bad day. His English teacher had not been impressed when he handed in a blank paper that morning for the essay he was supposed to have written on the topic of 'Courage'. She had given him two months worth of detentions for the stunt. His girlfriend had dumped him during lunch, claiming that he wasn't paying her enough attention. And then, on top of everything else, his mother had texted him not ten minutes ago to tell him that he couldn't go home that night because she had a male friend over. No, Kyle Strait was not having a good day.

And the crazy woman screaming in his face was not improving things.

"OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! YOU HAVE TO HELP ME! OH MY GOD! IT HAPPENED SO FAST, I COULDN'T – OH MY GOD!"

"Lady! LADY! CALM DOWN! I CAN'T HELP YOU UNLESS YOU CALM DOWN!"

The woman was dressed in an oversized hoodie and her dark hair stuck out around her head like a bird's nest. He suspected she was homeless, though she smelt better than any homeless person he had ever come across. She held a plastic bag in her hands, which he assumed held all her world possessions. The woman calmed down enough to stare at him with wide green eyes, her bottom lip quivering like she was about to cry. Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Okay," he sighed tiredly. "Start from the beginning. What's wrong?"

Her arm flew out to point widely at something behind her and her voice started to increase in volume again.

"It happened so fast. There were so many people on the platform. Everyone was pushing and – OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! HE FELL! AND EVERYONE JUST KEPT PUSHING AND – "

"Wait! What did you say?"

Kyle reared back as the woman reached over the counter to grab the front of his T-shirt, pulling him towards her.

"HE FELL! THERE'S A MAN ON THE TRAIN TRACKS!"

"WHAT!"

Kyle did not hesitate as he leapt over the counter, running as fast as he could towards the platforms. The woman looked after him, hands twisting the hem of her gym jacket.

"Sucker."

Monroe couldn't believe how gullible the boy was. He hadn't even questioned what she was doing so far away from the train platforms. She figured she had fifteen minutes, twenty tops, before he'd finally catch on. Monroe tucked her hair back under her hood, kept her head down, and got to work.

The black spray paint took care of the cameras mounted near the door leading to the lost and found locker room. Humming one of her favourite Johnny Cash oldies, Monroe sprayed the keypad with a layer of hairspray, poured some of the baby powder onto her hand, and carefully blew on the powder until the keypad was covered – revealing the fingerprints of the last person who accessed the room. Monroe frowned, though she kept humming. Only four of the numbers had prints on them, but the keypad looked to be using a six-digit code. This might take a while.

Three minutes, forty-seven seconds and close to forty-five code combinations later, Monroe finally heard the soft click of the door unlocking. Lost and found was a treasure trove of goodies. Within eight minutes, not only had she found clothes that actually fit her but Monroe had also collected a fair number of items to replace the tools she had to leave behind. Her favourite find though was a black biker jacket with a detachable fleece hood. Upending one of the many backpacks that had been dumped in the room, Monroe refilled it with her latest acquisitions, checked her new watch, and made a hasty retreat. The only thing she kept was the black umbrella. She hadn't been able to find a walking cane.

Monroe passed Kyle as he returned from the platforms but he didn't notice her. After all, it was rather hard to identify the sleek looking young woman with the dishevelled homeless looking one from before. Monroe had tied her hair back in the usual braid she wore during jobs and though her clothes were not branded, they looked to be of good quality. She walked, or rather limped, confidently towards the ticketing counters and got into line behind a young mother with an extremely friendly toddler.

"One first class ticket for Ha – "

"This just in. One of the bodies found in the burnt wreck on a Los Angeles highway this evening has finally been identified as Coreen Selwyn – "

Monroe spun around fast enough to give herself whiplash.

There was a small group of people gathered under a flat screen television that had been mounted on a support pillar in the train station's waiting area. The news was showing and a grim looking anchorman was reporting live from a supposed accident scene in Los Angeles. Monroe left the line, not even hearing the ticketing woman behind her asking her if she was all right. She had to push past several people before she had a clear view of the television but Monroe seemed oblivious to their angry looks. Her eyes were trained solely on the screen, watching as the scene panned over a smouldering shell of what looked to have once been a minivan.

"The police have yet to confirm the identities of the other passenger or the driver of the vehicle," continued the voiceover of the anchorman, "but they are believed to have been her son and her brother."

Monroe felt her breath catch. It couldn't be. After all, there must surely be tonnes of people named Selwyn. But she couldn't shake the feeling that this was no coincidence. She had assured Teddy that the Black Mask wouldn't come after him but…what were the chances of this happening to another family with the same last name? Monroe clenched her fists by her sides. Her nails bit into her flesh but she did not feel them. The anchorman was speaking again.

"Yes. Yes, we have confirmation that the driver was indeed Theodore Selwyn, brother of Coreen Selwyn. If you have just tuned in, we are reporting live at the scene of a horrible highway tragedy just outside of Anaheim. Eyewitnesses have come forward reporting that the vehicle had suddenly exploded. Police have refused to confirm or deny if this incident was a possible terrorist attack…"

But Monroe was no longer listening. Theodore Selwyn. Teddy.

Teddy was dead.

* * *

Bruce Wayne sat in the Bat Bunker beneath the Wayne Foundation building staring at the array of objects laid out on the table before him. They were the contents of a backpack that had belonged to a Jane Doe who had disappeared from St. Luke's, now considered the largest hospital in Gotham since the Joker's destruction of Gotham City General. It had not taken much strenuous investigation to determine that the Jane Doe was the same Jane Parker he had met on the night of the Wayne Foundation Masquerade Ball – the same woman he had encountered on the docks two days ago. The billionaire was also willing to bet that the woman was none other than the elusive Ghost who had not only broken Jonathan Crane out of Arkham but had stolen two vials of an extremely deadly venom from his laboratories. One of those vials was now sitting on the table, along with the rest of her possessions.

None of the prints he had lifted from her things had matched any of the known records on both the national and international fingerprint databases. There were no identification papers and, aside from the curiously high-tech automatic combination dialler, everything else in her bag could more or less be found, legally, in any store. The only item that told him anything was the extremely dog-eared copy of Burgess' 'A Clockwork Orange', and even then all it did was tell him that she had a strange empathy for mental unbalanced literary characters. It was very frustrating.

The soft clink of china against metal announced Alfred's presence in the bunker. Bruce smiled at his old friend as the man deposited a tea tray on the table.

"Thank you, Alfred."

"Is this what the Commissioner called you out for?"

Bruce sighed, steepling his fingers as he returned his attention to the conundrum at hand. It could not simply be coincidental that the same woman was in the company of both Roman Sionis, who he always suspected had fingers in several corrupt pies, and the Joker in the span of less than a week. She was obviously a criminal; a criminal with no official records whatsoever. Bruce had the sinking suspicion that even if he were to somehow discover her real name – for he knew that Jane Parker had to be an alias – he would not even find a birth certificate. Whoever this woman was, she knew how to disappear. No wonder they called her The Ghost.

"They belong to a woman who suspiciously disappeared from St. Luke's this evening. Gordon decided to contact me when they came across the vial."

Alfred Pennyworth cast his eyes over the test tube though he made no move to pick it up.

"And I assume that is the octopus venom that was stolen from Wayne laboratories. Curious that she would keep it on her."

"I know," admitted Bruce with a frown. "Even stranger that she would just leave it behind."

"Unless she has no use for it," Alfred pointed out, pouring a cup of tea. He placed the cup and saucer by Bruce's elbow.

Bruce's frown deepened.

"Nothing this woman has done so far makes any sense. First she steals the Star of Affera, then a music box from Parkhurst Galleries; neither of which seems to have turned up on the black market. She breaks into the Morganbilt, which you know has never been done before, and yet doesn't take a single thing. And then, all of a sudden, she helps Crane escape from Arkham and steals an extremely rare and poisonous venom."

"Don't forget that she went from leaving no clues behind to physically assaulting that guard."

"And the orderly in Arkham," Bruce added.

He reached for the auto dialler, turning the device over in his hands. At the moment, it was the only real clue he had to The Ghost's real identity. It looked like a custom job, which means it was expensive. It also meant that it was highly probable that it could be traced. He reached for one of the many screwdrivers on the table.

Alfred, recognising the look of stubborn determination on Bruce's face, quietly left the bunker.

All Bruce needed was a serial number; a serial number he could track down. The vigilante couldn't shake the feeling that something big was about to go down in Gotham and The Ghost was somehow right in the middle of it. She had looked harmless enough to him, both during the masquerade fundraiser and at the docks, but he had learnt long ago that appearances could be misleading. There were just too many dangerous game pieces in play at the moment – an extremely deadly poison, The Scarecrow, The Joker – and the Batman couldn't afford to take any chances. The more information he had on all the players, the better the chances were of success. The Batman couldn't afford to lose.

Not when an entire city was at stake.

* * *

Gotham was as vibrant at night as it was during the day. It was a few hours before dawn, and yet there were citizens that still showed no signs of turning in for the night any time soon. The whores were plying their trade on almost every other street corner, their pimps leering out at potential johns from where they lurked inside darkened alleys. Sudden cries that cut through the night were ignored, as some poor sap got mugged or worse. And down a filthy street in the Narrows, a young woman hobbled past would-be rapists and small time crooks with murder in her eyes.

"Hey, sweet cheeks! Didn't your mama ever tell you it's dangerous to be out on your own at night?"

Monroe stopped as a horny drunk stepped out of a boarded up doorway to block her path. The man smelt like he hadn't had a shower in at least a month. He was missing several teeth and his bushy eyebrows and beard made him resemble a grizzly bear. He had a few friends with him, though they were sticking to the shadows, enthusiastically egging him on. Monroe looked up at him through her lashes, head tilted quizzically to the side.

"I don't have one."

The drunk's friends crowed with laughter. He grinned toothily – or rather toothlessly – at her.

"Oh baby, don't you worry now. Daddy'll take care of you."

Monroe looked away, the corners of her lips turning up into a small, yet unreadable, smile.

"Actually, I'm looking for someone."

The drunk seemed amused at the fact that she was still there talking to him and had yet to rebuff him. He wriggled his hairy brows at her.

"Shucks, honey! Tell me his name and I'll help you look. Maybe he'll join us."

His friends burst out in fresh laughter at that. The drunk appeared equally tickled until Monroe stepped closer to him. One look into her eyes had the mirth dying on his lips. There was something there that was just – not quite right.

"Sure." Monroe was still smiling that slight little smile that chilled the blood in his veins. "I'm looking for the Joker."

The laughter ended abruptly. The drunk's friends seemed to shrink back into the shadows. And he felt very sober all of a sudden.

"You really don't want to be doing that."

She merely laughed at the obvious quiver in his voice.

"Oh, but I really do."

Monroe heard the sound of breaking glass as someone dropped what she suspected to be a beer bottle. Some of the men were looking around them, as if expecting to find the mass-murdering psychopath standing right next to them. One of them broke from the group, running as fast as his unstable legs could carry him. The not-so-drunk drunk looked at Monroe, as if really seeing her for the first time.

"Who are you?"

Her slim hand snapped out, grabbing the front of his grubby T-shirt and pulling him down to her level. Her voice when she spoke was barely above a whisper but promised pain if he didn't do as she asked.

"Spread the word. Tell the Joker that the Ghost is looking for him."

Monroe watched as the man tripped over his feet to get away from her. She was sure he wasn't running to the Joker to pass on her message but she also knew that, before the sun rose, all of Gotham's underworld would know that the Ghost was on the hunt.

The next man who approached her was rewarded with a broken nose and was given the same message. After that word must have spread that there was a psychotic bitch with a limp on the loose since no one else tried to sweet talk her into banging them in some dark alley.

Monroe growled. If no body would come up to her, how was she supposed to question them about the location of the Joker? She couldn't approach anyone either since the one time she tried to the whore had scampered as if she were the boogieman himself.

By the time she reached the far side of the Narrows, the sun was beginning to crest over the horizon. She had felt the stitches in her leg snap long before then and the pain was making her rather short tempered. So when the gangbanger swaggered up to her, calling her all sorts of names and offering to show her what a real man was like, Monroe didn't feel the slightest twinge of remorse at what she did.

The idiot wasn't alone and, unlike the homeless drunks, his friends had no qualms closing in on her, like predators stalking their prey. They circled her lazily, the idiot deciding her needed to intimidate – or impress – her by making it clear that he was packing. As he came up to her, he lifted the front of his shirt, revealing a semi-automatic pistol he had tucked down the front of his low riding jeans. He laughed at the look on her face, boldly guaranteeing her that it wasn't the only large weapon he had in his pants.

"Oh, I don't doubt that," said Monroe coolly. "God had to give you _something_ to compensate for the obvious lack of brains."

The gangbanger went from laughing to snarling in the space of a blink. He let go of his shirt as he took a threatening step towards her.

"What did you say, bitch?"

"Are you deaf as well?" retorted Monroe, standing her ground though she had to angle her head back to look up at him. He was within striking distance now and looked ready to break her jaw. Monroe was undeterred. "I believe I just called you _stupid_, stupid."

The man roared as he brought his arm back to land a bone-shattering blow across her face. But he never got to follow through with it. With reflexes that were obviously faster than his, Monroe gripped the bottom of her umbrella in both hands and swung it like a baseball bat. The curved handle struck him below the jaw and his head jerked back. Properly distracted now, he never saw her close the gap between them, reach for his handgun, and pull the trigger. A flash of white-hot pain shot up his spine as his hands flew to what was left of his crotch. And then he collapse, eyes rolling to the back of his head as he bled to death.

Monroe had kept her grip on the gun as the idiot fell and brought it round to aim at his fellow gang members. When she spoke, it was in the type of voice teachers usually reserved for very young, or very slow, students.

"You should always make sure the safety's on. It prevents nasty accidents like that."

She kicked the idiot's corpse to emphasise her point.

The other gangbangers looked torn between wanting to get as far away from her as possible, and wanting to rip her to pieces with their bare hands. They did neither, as they withdrew their own firearms and pointed them at Monroe's head.

Monroe knew she was in trouble. She wasn't a particularly good shot and it was highly improbable that she could face down several automatic guns and live. But her anger fuelled her, even encouraged her to throw herself into the suicidal gunfight. Instead of lowering her weapon, she flashed the men a feral grin.

"Bring it."

She heard rather than saw them tightening their grips on their triggers. Surrounding her as they were, their bullets sliced through each other as Monroe flung herself to the ground instead of returning fire. She immediately rolled onto her back, pistol gripped in both hands, ready to blow someone's brains out. Except someone else had involved themselves in her fight. She could hear the sound of more guns not too far away. The gangbangers jerked in an odd way as the ammunition from an unseen enemy cut them down. As suddenly as it had started, the gunfight was over, and Monroe found herself surrounded by quickly cooling bodies.

Monroe propped herself up on her elbows, warily looking around to see if thanks were in order or if she should start running. Not that she would get very far with her leg. She blinked as her eyes landed on a beat up looking ice cream truck, complete with a colourful plastic ice cream cone mounted on the roof, and the two men standing beside it, armed with assault rifles. The younger of the two cautiously approached her and offered her a hand. Monroe ignored it. Reaching for her umbrella, she leant heavily on it as she hefted herself off the ground. Embarrassed, the man, who was really not much older than she was, ran his hand through his hair instead and scowled at her.

"The Joker would like to cordially invite you to join him in his humble abode," he recited in a mechanical voice.

Monroe frowned.

"What?"

"The Boss wants to see you!" he snapped, before turning his back on her.

Monroe blinked again. And then she grinned. The other man standing by the ice cream truck fought the urge to shudder at the gleam he saw in her eyes.

"Oh good! He got my message," she said, more to her herself than anyone else, as she limped after the disgruntled messenger.

Despite her limp, Monroe managed to plant herself firmly in the passenger seat before the younger man, stubbornly refusing to be foisted into the back of the truck. He cursed. She smirked. He climbed into the back of the ice cream truck. The other man got behind the driver's wheel, resolutely refusing to look at either of them, and drove them out of the Narrows. Strangely, despite being in an unfamiliar vehicle with two of the Joker's thugs, Monroe felt herself relax for the first time in several hours.

They drove through a slowly waking Gotham, past the already busy fish market, bakers' vans making their first deliveries of the day, and seedy diners that catered to the early morning rush of blue-collared workers. No one gave the ice cream truck a second look. Eventually they reached a run down amusement park in the east end of the city. It was impossible to distinguish the name of the park as enough letters had fallen off the sign over the archway that marked the entrance. Instead, someone had spray painted over the metal work, in bright green – "**Abandon all hope, ye who enter here**".

"Dante," Monroe mused as they passed under the arch. "Poetic."

Both men spilled out of the truck the instant it came to a stop, leaving Monroe to trail after them. Monroe didn't mind. It gave her time to study her surroundings. Police tape blocked off many of the rides; notices hanging here and there declared that the park did not meet the city's public safety requirements. She was so busy looking at the silent rides that she didn't notice that they had come to a stop until she walked into someone's back. The younger of the two goons turned to glare at her.

"Geez, sorry," muttered Monroe.

They appeared to be standing in the middle of the park. In front of them, a manmade lake lay stagnant, no doubt serving as a fertile breeding ground for hordes of mosquitoes. The entrance to a rollercoaster laid to their left, to their right, an empty food court. From somewhere behind them came the sound of someone humming. Monroe rolled her eyes, though she noticed how the two men with her started to fidget uncomfortably.

"Joker," she acknowledge in way of greeting as she turned around.

He was stepping off the carousel and Monroe briefly wondered how she had not been aware of his presence there earlier. Even under all his greasepaint, Monroe could see the purplish bruising around his nose from when the Batman had broken it three nights ago. And though his face betrayed no hint of pain, she could tell that his ribs were still aching. Monroe wanted to smile; at least she wasn't the only one recovering from that night.

"I heard you were looking for me," he drawled. He stopped before he reached her, choosing instead to lean ever so nonchalantly against one of the park's absurdly carved lampposts. That single act in itself told Monroe that the Joker was definitely not in tiptop shape; no matter the image he was projecting to his men. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Monroe obstinately remained where she was standing. If the Joker wasn't going to come to her, she sure as hell wasn't going to go to him. After all, she was the one with the wounded leg. She met his stare squarely, without flinching, and adopted the same careless stance he had, leaning against her umbrella though it caused another flash of pain to shoot up her leg. Lifting her chin defiantly, Monroe shot him the cheekiest grin she could manage.

"I have a proposition for you."

* * *

**-hides behind her dog- Don't hurt me! I know some of you guys loved Teddy but it had to be done. He was always going to die. Forgive me? And, and – if you hurt me, how am I going to finish the story? Wait. Don't answer that.**

Love-ly. Love-lyLovely45**: I know, I know. For a Joker story there does seem to be a whole lot more of Monroe than him (and trust me, he doesn't like that) But look! After this chapter there DEFINITELY will be a whole lot more of him. I have to admit, the Joker's speech patterns are one of the hardest aspects of this story. How to allow the guy to talk without immediately causing everyone to cringe? I'm glad you think I've handled this well. And I positively beamed when I read that you liked the fight scene. I'm usually rubbish at writing that. So, really, this story is all kinds of challenging. It'll help me grow as a writer -nods sagely-**

**All right, guys! Please do leave some sort of feedback. Otherwise I'll never know when I screw up. And you KNOW I love hearing from you.**

**Feed my habit!**

**Much love,**

**Scribbles**


	10. 9

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed and/or put this story on their favourites/alerts list.**

**You'll probably notice that this chapter is slightly longer than average. I'll be in St. Petersburg for most of October and I don't think I'll be able to post another chapter before I leave. Also, by the time I get back, my birthday would have past. So, to get to the point, my birthday wish is that this story will be able to hit over 80 reviews by the time I get back. I know it's possible since each chapter averages a 100-160 hits each time I update. So, pretty please, make a fellow fangirl's wish come true?**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.**

* * *

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"_Thus passes the glory of the world"_

...

By Scribbles-Dementia

...

9

* * *

Monroe hissed, spitting out an impressive arsenal of curses she had gathered over the years. She could taste blood in her mouth; the result of having bit down on her bottom lip too hard. Gritting her teeth, her eyes hardened with determination as she told herself not to be such a big baby. Taking a swig of the cheap whiskey she had 'persuaded' one of the Joker's goons to acquire for her, Monroe bent down and pushed the sterilised needle through her flesh again. As she finished off the last stitch, Monroe reached for the small travel-sized scissors balanced on the sink nearby and cut off the excess surgical thread. With that done, she finally allowed herself to relax, sinking back into her chair. Her eyes flickered up to her reflection in the spotted full-length mirror before her.

She had to admit; she looked like crap. Despite her braid, there were still strands of her sweat-drenched hair plastered to the side of her head. Her eyes looked slightly feverish and the various nicks and bruises on her face made her look like a victim of domestic abuse. The skin around her freshly re-stitched gunshot wound glowed an angry red – Monroe was sure it hadn't hurt as much when Morgan used to patch her up. She reached for the bottle of whiskey.

"_I have a proposition for you."_

Monroe wasn't sure what sort of reaction she had expected from the Joker at her declaration but somehow she wasn't surprised when she suddenly found his eyes slowly raking down her body. He took his time but Monroe kept still. When his gaze finally returned to her face, she was ready for him with a cockily quirked brow and a challenge in her eyes. The Joker shrugged.

"Sorry. You're not my type."

Monroe blinked. And then she scowled.

"Not that type of proposition!"

The Joker looked surprised. Monroe felt the sudden urge to punch him right in his lipstick-smeared mouth.

"What did you have in mind then?"

Monroe opened her mouth, shut it again, and swallowed the angry retort she had on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes narrowed as she realised that the Joker had intentionally baited her. It was as if he wasn't really taking her seriously. Not that she blamed him. A shorter than average woman who looked like the loser in a fistfight didn't exactly inspire confidence – or fear. She let a smirk replace the scowl on her lips. Fine – if that was how he wanted it, she'd play his game.

"A message."

The Joker remained silent but Monroe noticed the spark of interest that flashed in his eyes. He tilted his head, the movement causing a curtain of oily green hair to fall over his face. Monroe decided to press her advantage.

"To a man who believes he owns Gotham. The same man who tried to kill you three nights ago."

She watched as the Joker slipped his hands into the pockets of his purple, pinstriped pants. He crossed one leg over the other, shifting to rest most of his weight on the lamppost. He was making himself comfortable.

"Uh – you mean that loon you called the Black Mask? Why, I do believe that he's dead."

"Well, contrary to what _you_ believe, recent events appear to prove otherwise."

The Joker stood stock-still. Yet Monroe could feel the tangible energy rolling off of him in waves. The man was like a tightly wound coil, ready to spring at any moment. Behind him, the sun was rising over the top of the decrepit carousel.

"What's the message?"

Monroe's smirk widened into a Cheshire cat grin.

"Hell invokes Hell."

The Joker laughed. It wasn't the wild unbridled laughter she had heard during his fight with the Batman or the taunting giggles he had for Bader that night she broke Crane out of Arkham. It seemed a lot more reserved – almost normal – and made him appear far more dangerous than he usually did. Behind Monroe, the two men who had brought her to the park took an unconscious step back.

"_Abyssus abyssum invocat_." He placed heavy emphasis on the sibilance of the words, and the 't' became a rather violent plosive. For some reason, Monroe wasn't surprised that the Joker knew the Latin translation of the proverb. "I don't think it means what you think it does."

"I prefer its literal interpretation," said Monroe dryly.

She watched as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. Rolling his shoulders, the Joker removed his hands from his pockets, withdrawing a familiar looking knife. He flicked it open with the same practised ease she had used when handling the blade. Her eyes followed his hands as he ran them through his hair.

"You stabbed me," said the Joker accusingly, almost petulantly.

Monroe arched a brow.

"_You_ used me as a human shield. I'd say we're pretty even." She jerked her head at the butterfly knife in his hand. "And I want my knife back."

The Joker made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded like a cross between a snort and a cat hissing. Tossing the blade back and forth, from one hand to the other, he pushed himself off of the lamppost and approached her. He didn't exactly stalk towards her, though the pain he clearly still felt in his ribs slowed his progress. He hid it well however; the faint grimace in his face simply adding to his intimidating persona. He had no qualms about invading her personal space, stopping just barely a foot away from her so she had to crane her head back to look up at him. Monroe had to admit, the overall effect was extremely impressive.

"No." Monroe glared at him. He sucked on his top front teeth, and brought up the knife to tap the flat of the blade on the hollow at the base of her neck. "I think I'll keep it." As he licked his lips again, Monroe was strongly reminded of a cat having cornered its prey. "Think of it as a down payment."

She tilted her head quizzically.

"So you're in?"

"Am I in?" The Joker tapped the butterfly knife against her neck again. "Am I out?" She felt him apply pressure. "You make it sound like a game."

"Isn't it?" she countered.

That curious spark was back in the Joker's eyes. He removed the knife from her throat, his arm dropping to hang by his side.

"Who are the players then?"

"The Black Mask, Jonathan Crane, me," Monroe paused. "You." And then she played her ace. "The Batman."

The Joker stilled. Monroe held her breath. It was now or never. The Joker would either throw his cap in or slice her up and feed her to the fishes. She would rather the former, but there really was no telling with a man like him. Just when you thought you finally had him figured out, the man threw you a screwball. Monroe was ready to make an attempt to jump out of his way if he decided not to accept her rather warped offer of a team up.

After what felt like forever, a slow, grotesque grin spread across the Joker's face. And then he started laughing. It began softly, gradually growing in volume and intensity until he was practically gripping his sides. Monroe felt a smile forming, unbidden, on her own lips.

"It'll be a damn battle royal," the Joker crowed.

Monroe's eyes flashed in triumph.

"_With Gotham going to the winner."_

That was how Monroe found herself stitching up her wound in the food court's filthy bathroom. She had nagged the younger of her two original guides into getting her a clean needle, surgical thread, a lighter and the cheapest alcohol he could find. She had actually given him the money for it too since she didn't trust his shoplifting skills. Stripped down to her underwear, she then perched herself on one of the plastic chairs she'd dragged into the bathroom from the food court's dining area, propped her right leg against the tiled wall and began the Frankenstein-ian task of sewing herself back together.

Monroe took another swig of the horrible whiskey.

It was incredibly risky and ridiculously stupid aligning herself with the Joker. She frowned. But no one ever got anywhere by playing it safe. She never had and wasn't about to start now. Monroe raised the bottle and toasted her reflection.

"Sic infit."

_So it begins._

* * *

It was an unusually hot day in Gotham. It was also a surprisingly slow news day. Sure, the Joker and the Scarecrow were still loose and about in the city. But they had been surprisingly quiet. Which in itself was probably more terrifying than when they were wreaking havoc. It had everyone on alert – and jumpy – not to mention cranky.

"Booker!"

Zeke Booker's head snapped up so fast he gave himself whiplash. Rubbing at his sore neck, he peered over the walls of his cubicle, trying to locate the person who had called for him. The entire floor was a buzz of activity, though Zeke knew that no one was actually doing any real work. How could they when there was no news worthy news to report?

"Booker!"

He finally spotted his editor standing at the entrance of the corridor that led to the lift lobby. The man looked harried and in no mood to be kept waiting. Zeke almost tripped over his chair as he hurried out of his cubicle.

"About time, Booker! What are you working on?"

"I was going to take another look at that factory fire on the docks – "

"Leave it! We've already run that story twice. No one wants to read about it if there isn't some sort of link to one of those crazies."

"I think – "

"The fire department said it was a leaking gas main. There's a woman downstairs from the university who wants to take a look at our archives."

"But what has that – "

"I need you to take her to the basement."

Zeke frowned.

"Don't we have someone working in Archives?"

His editor crossed his arms across his rather substantial chest, staring him down as if he were a mentally retarded child.

"We got rid of the staff in that department during the last layoffs. And if you don't go downstairs right now, you'll find yourself out of a job too."

Zeke didn't need telling twice. Grumbling under his breath, he got into a lift and punched the button for the ground floor. He had known from the onset that the Gotham Post was not the best newspaper agency in the city. But he had not signed up to be a babysitter for some wannabe journalist from a second-rate university. Actually, his editor never did say which university the woman was from. In fact, he hadn't even mentioned the woman's name. Zeke swore.

The offices of the Gotham Post shared a building with several other businesses. As a result, the entrance lobby was always crowded with people coming and going. Zeke ran a hand through his hair. Finding a woman, whose name he didn't even know, in this mess was going to take a while. He decided the best course of action was probably to approach the receptionist. After all, she spent most of her day in the entrance lobby. The woman would have had to talk to her to have gotten through to his editor in the first place.

"Hey, Linda. Do you know where this woman is that I'm supposed to take to Archives?"

The receptionist – a pretty redhead with a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose – glanced up at him. She held up a finger to silence him as she finished her call. Zeke was more than happy to wait; he had a fantastic view down her silk blouse from where he was standing. She smiled pleasantly as she hung up the phone, either unaware of or ignoring the direction of his gaze.

"How can I help you?" she asked, with not the slightest hint of recognition in her face.

"Linda, it's me. Zeke Booker? I work up at the Post."

She blushed attractively, realising her faux pas.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Yeah, you're the sweetheart that always drops off a low-fat vanilla latte for me on the way up every morning."

It wasn't him, but Zeke wasn't about to correct her.

"Darling," he drawled. "How many guys have you got buying you coffee that you can't remember me?"

From the fiercer blush that turned even her neck a rosy pink, Zeke knew that there had to be several. He smiled and was about to lean closer to her when they were interrupted.

"Sorry, miss," came a sweet, quiet voice. "I was just wondering if they've sent someone down from the Gotham Post yet? I really do need to take a look at those archives."

Zeke resisted the urge to scowl and turned to face the woman. The first thing he noticed were the crutches. Great, he was stuck babysitting a cripple. She was petite and mousey, her green eyes hidden behind a dowdy pair of glasses. The cardigan and skirt combination she wore did nothing for her figure. She looked like the slightest breeze would blow her over. There was something familiar about her face, though he was sure they had never met before. He sighed.

"Are you the one from the university?"

She graced him with a bright, toothy smile.

"Are you from the Post?"

Zeke nodded. He turned to say goodbye to Linda, weaselling out a pity date from her, and walked back towards the lifts without waiting to see if the timid woman was following him. The sound of her crutches against the marble floor assured him that she was.

There was a security station they had to clear before the woman was allowed onto the elevators. She stood patiently as a guard passed a handheld metal detector over her front and back. Zeke finally found out her name as she signed the forms for a temporary visitor's pass: Jane Parker, a plain name for a plain jane. He made no attempts at conversation during the short ride down to the basement, and she seemed more than happy to maintain the silence.

The archives were as musty and unpleasant as he had always imagined them to be. Zeke had never really been down to the basement before and he hoped he never would have to again. Personally, he thought the former Archives staff were better off being laid off than having to spend their days cooped up in the miserable looking room.

"Are you looking for anything in particular?" he asked in a half-hearted attempt to be helpful.

"Yeah, actually," she said with another one of her overfriendly smiles. "Anything and everything you guys have on the Sionis family."

Zeke frowned in confusion.

"The Sionis'?"

"It's for a term paper," she explained. "My topic's about Gotham's old and affluent families."

"Why don't you write about the Waynes?"

She laughed.

"Because that's what everyone's going to expect."

Zeke shrugged.

"Suit yourself. There should be something down that aisle. I think."

It took them almost half an hour to figure out the sorting system and another five minutes for Zeke to find a stepladder as the issues they needed were on a shelve that was, annoyingly, just out of reach.

"There's a desk we passed back there that we can use," the woman suggested.

Zeke silently carried the five heavy stacks of newspapers to the table she pointed out. Dusting off his hands after the last stack, he finally took the time to look down at what he had helped lug down from the archive shelves. The topmost issue was dated the day after the Wayne Foundation Masquerade Ball. The headline was all about the theft that night, but in the bottom left-hand corner there was a series of photographs featuring some of the glamorous guests in attendance that night. And there, in the smallest of the three shots, was a familiar face standing next to the Sionis heir. Except, in the photograph, her eyes weren't obscured by a pair of glasses, her hair wasn't in a messy ponytail, and the dress she was wearing probably cost more than his pay check for the entire year. Looking down at the face in print, reminded him of yet another photograph that made the presses the very next day. He looked up to find the woman who called herself Jane Parker staring at him. He flashed her the most unassuming smile he could muster.

"I think there's another stack back there. I'll just go check."

The smile she returned was sweet and very grateful.

"Sure. Thank you so much again for this."

Zeke watched as she awkwardly lowered herself into a chair and pulled the first stack of newspapers towards her. Nodding, he backed up a few steps, shoved his hands into his back pockets, shot her another smile, and turned down an aisle where he knew he would find past issues of the Post that featured articles on a completely different celebrity – The Ghost. He didn't have to look too hard to find the issue he wanted. Splashed across the front page was a blurry still from a security camera. Yet, in spite of the poor quality of the shot, there was something recognisable about the petite woman dressed in the oversized uniform of a security guard.

Zeke felt his breath hitch in his throat. This was his big break. Unveiling the true identity of The Ghost, he could already see them awarding him a Pulitzer. Oh, Linda would definitely remember his name them. He reached for his cell phone, punched in the number for the police and –

The loud crack reverberated through the basement followed by a dull thud as Zeke Booker collapsed, unconscious, knocking his head on the edge of a shelve as he fell. Monroe stood over the journalist, one of her crutches clutched in both of her hands. She had seen the light of recognition in his eyes the moment he looked up from that news article and knew she was in trouble. She bent down to check his pulse.

"Oh, good. You're not dead," she muttered.

Picking up his cell phone, Monroe cleared the numbers he had already punched in and pocketed it. Hobbling back to the table, she got to work gathering as much information as she could on Roman Sionis.

The Sionis family had at one time been as ridiculously wealthy as the Waynes, holding a coveted position in Gotham's high society. Monroe found numerous articles on the parties they threw and fundraisers they attended; schools and libraries they apparently helped build; and even more reports on the incredible success of their company, Janus Cosmetics. There was an article on Roman Sionis' engagement to a woman named Circe, which Monroe found curiously brief until she realised that the woman had been a secretary at Janus Cosmetics. Daddy Sionis couldn't have been too happy about that. Not too long after their engagement was announced, a freak fire burnt the Sionis family mansion to the ground, killing both Mr. and Mrs. Sionis. Their obituaries took up two full pages; the report on their funeral took up four. Things went downhill after that. A new product was introduced to the Janus Cosmetics line that ended up disfiguring a large number of women. Monroe was surprised the lawsuits didn't bankrupt the family. Somehow, Roman had enough money to rebuild the luxurious Sionis mansion. There was another short article on the break up of Roman and Circe, more reports on the progress of the lawsuits against Janus Cosmetics, and then, suddenly, nothing. Roman Sionis, heir to his family's vast fortune, simply vanished off the face of the earth. There were one or two small articles with reports of alleged sightings but nothing substantial. Roman Sionis managed to keep well out of the spotlight for several years – until the recent Wayne Foundation Ball.

Monroe stretched and cracked her back. She listened for any sounds of the journalist regaining consciousness, heard nothing, and returned to her notes. Gotham sure loved its gossip, especially when it involved the rise and fall of its own celebrities. And the Gotham Post seemed to have no qualms about reporting outrageous rumours without checking for facts. Monroe wasn't sure she couldn't believe half the things she had read. However, thanks to the Post's lack of ethics, she did come across two useful pieces of information: the address of the Sionis family mansion up in the Palisades, and the name of a bank where they supposedly had a safety deposit box.

* * *

The Joker sat, backwards, astride one of the horses on the rundown carousel, picking his teeth with the butterfly knife The Ghost had stabbed him with. Unlike the men who flocked to him, drawn by the allure of the chaos and infamy they believed they would achieve through association, the woman was not scared of him. As he had stared down at her, with her own blade held to her throat, earlier that morning, he had seen _something_ in her eyes. But not the slightest hint of fear. And it pissed him off.

She had played him too. Not that he realised it until hours later, when she left to run some sort of errand. She knew that he wouldn't say no to her once the Batman got drawn into their game. The woman was smart, knowing just the right strings to pull. Damn it, he wanted to slit her thin, little throat!

The Joker watched as she hobbled through the gates of the amusement park, looking just like a librarian. And not even the sexy kind. He wondered where she had stolen her crutches. She paused by the teacup ride, re-orientated herself, and headed towards where the public telephones were located. He flipped the butterfly knife close and followed her. He found her by the only working payphone, prying open the front of the coin vault with a screwdriver. It popped open with a sharp crack, a waterfall of quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies cascading out of the device.

"Didn't know you were that short on cash."

The Ghost looked up and rolled her eyes.

"I need to make a phone call."

She ignored his presence as she fed a handful of coins into the phone and dialled an absurdly long set of numbers. The Joker leaned against the side of the payphone, tugging at the phone's cord. The Ghost lifted her hand, as if to slap his away, decided against it and let her hand fall back to her side. He smirked. Hah! Score one for him!

The Ghost opened her mouth – no doubt to rip him a new one – when the person on the other end of the line finally picked up. She didn't bother with a greeting.

"Roman Sionis. Gotham General Bank & Trust."

There were a few minutes of silence. And then she hung up. The Joker cut her a sardonic glance.

"We're hitting a bank?"

It was her turn to smirk.

"No need to sound so unimpressed. Trust me a little here."

The Joker snorted. The Ghost arched a brow and reached up to pat him twice on the cheek. He stilled at the sudden contact. She did not wait around for him to gather his wits and retaliate.

* * *

Monroe sat on top of one of the many tables in the food court, elbows propped on her knees and her head resting in her hands. She had not slept in over twenty-four hours and the lack of sleep was making her irritable. It did not help that the Joker's men, who were scattered about the room, did not whisper as softly as they thought they did.

"She's crazy."

"We're going to get caught."

"Does she have a death wish?"

Monroe pinched the bridge of her nose. The Joker was sitting in the middle of it all, cleaning his nails with her butterfly knife, seemingly oblivious of his men's worries. Monroe snapped.

"If no one has anything else to do except whine like little girls, can someone go get dinner or something!"

All heads shot towards her. Some looked scared, some looked sheepish, and some looked seriously ticked off. It was hard to read what the Joker was feeling. But apparently he was hungry too.

"I'm feeling a pepperoni pizza right about now," he said, leaning back so that his chair balanced on its hind legs. "Who's taking orders?"

Without waiting for volunteers, the Joker had the whiners on dinner duty, leaving the men that Monroe felt were at least slightly competent. She straightened.

"It's not about the money," she explained. "It's about the message. If I were just after easy cash, yeah, I'd plan a night heist. But the Black Mask needs to know he's not safe anymore. That's why this has to be done in broad daylight."

Monroe aimed this last comment at the Joker and waited to see his reaction. She had a feeling that he'd be more than okay with a daytime bank job. After all, he had done it once before with Gotham First National. And the Joker was all about the message.

One of the younger thugs spoke up.

"Gotham Trust is on one of the busiest streets in the city. Not only that, but the cops are only two blocks away. There's no way we can pull this off."

Monroe tilted her head thoughtfully.

"And why do you say that?"

"Because there is no escape route."

Monroe nodded.

"True. There isn't one." More whispers broke out. "Not on ground level at least."

The men fell silent. The Joker stared her down, a slow grin spreading across his scarred face. He twirled her butterfly knife in his hand.

"What did you have in mind?"

Monroe smiled smugly.

"Gotham Trust may be situated in the part of the city with the most traffic, but it's also surrounded by buildings with lots of open rooftops."

A different goon voiced his opinion of her latest plan.

"So we go to the roof. And then what? We'll be sitting ducks up there. Unless you have a helicopter that we know nothing about."

"No," Monroe admitted. "But I'll have rappelling gear."

* * *

Morning dawned bright and early. In what passed for an upper middle-class suburb of Gotham, the bank manager of Gotham General Bank & Trust sat down to breakfast with his family. He smiled as his wife flitted about the kitchen, whipping up a batch of her famous blueberry pancakes; the same pancakes that were responsible for the respectable bulge he carried over his belt. He ruffled his son's hair as the boy dropped sleepily into one of the dining room chairs. His daughter kissed him lightly on the cheek as she handed him that morning's paper. There was a small article referring to the one the Gotham Post had printed in their evening edition the night before; declaring that the woman they claimed to have been The Ghost, Jane Parker, had no known files in any database, and therefore could not exist. She was nothing more than a figment of the imagination of journalists at the Post. He skimmed over the article, before turning to the sports pages instead. Later, he kissed his family goodbye, got into the BMW he spent years saving up for, and drove to work.

A few of the tellers were already waiting for him to open the bank. He greeted them jovially, exchanged pleasantries and the latest updates on their families, and let them into the building. None of them noticed the ice cream truck parked across the road.

"Really," sighed Monroe from where she sat in the front, wedged between the Joker and the driver of the truck. "Couldn't we have picked a more inconspicuous getaway vehicle?"

"What?" asked the Joker, seemingly affronted. "You don't like my wheels?"

Monroe decided not to dignify that with an answer. The driver, who was the younger of the two men who had brought her to the amusement park the day before, and who turned out to be one of the better drivers in the Joker's motley crew, kept wisely silent. They had two other men with them; men they knew would not be squeamish about climbing down the side of a twenty-story building if they had to.

"You sure this is gonna work?" asked the driver, whose name Monroe couldn't remember.

She grinned.

"No. That's half the fun."

The Joker peered out the window, watching the front of the bank. He made an indiscernible noise at the back of his throat in response to Monroe's answer. There was a strange light in his eyes.

"Let's get this show on the road."

They drove once more around the block, and then pulled up behind the building. Each of them carried a large duffel bag. No one wore a mask. They didn't even bother with the two security cameras covering the building's back entrance. Ten seconds and Monroe's trick with the metal sunglasses frame took care of the door. No sense alerting any one to their presence just yet. They made a quick stop in the basement, unloaded the contents of two of the duffel bags, and finally made their way to the bank's floor; the Joker leading the way.

"Good morning, everyone!" he called out.

The reaction that simple statement caused was priceless. Screams suddenly broke out, cut short by a burst of gunfire, courtesy of their two accomplices who were armed with assault rifles. That caught the attention of the security guards, but as the shifts had yet to change, they were not exactly on their 'A' game after an entire night of patrolling. Monroe almost felt sorry for them.

"Now, now," tutted the Joker. "No need for you to lose your heads. We're just here to make a teensy-weensy little withdrawal."

Monroe chuckled. The man sure loved his theatrics. But it worked. Everyone in the bank looked too scared to try anything stupid. Which was good. Monroe wanted to keep the body count down to a minimum it possible.

"I'm looking for the bank manager," said the Joker. "Hmm? Anyone?"

He brought his painted face close to one of the women's. She looked as if she were about to faint.

"Are you the manager?" The woman trembled. Tears welled up in her eyes. "Uh – no. I think," he rounded on the man they had seen open the doors to the bank, "you're the one I'm looking for."

The man was trying to be brave. Despite being a good foot shorter than the Joker, he met his gaze straight on.

"Let them go and I'll do whatever you want," said the man.

The Joker seemed to consider his demand.

"I'll let them go _after_ you do what I want."

A sudden movement caught Monroe's eye. She grimaced; one of the women was trying to creep round to the other side of one of the teller counters, no doubt to reach for the silent alarm. Even with her limp, Monroe managed to sneak up behind her before she reached the alarm. Monroe slipped one of her newly acquired screwdrivers out of her jacket sleeve.

"Don't try to be a hero," she warned, whispering right into the woman's ear. Monroe pressed the screwdriver's handle into the small of her back. The woman froze. "There's no need for anyone to die today."

"Looks like our Ghost has found us a volunteer!" announced the Joker.

Both women turned to see that they had attracted the attention of everyone else in the bank. The Joker fumbled in the pockets of his purple coat, muttering to himself under his breath as he did so. Monroe pressed her screwdriver harder into the woman's back when she tried to move.

"Aha!" cried the Joker, brandishing his prize with all the enthusiasm of a panner coming across gold.

He politely asked the woman to hold out her right hand. Monroe applied more pressure on her screwdriver. The woman complied. The Joker placed the device in her hand. It looked like nothing more than a camera film canister, except there was a button at its top which the Joker now positioned the woman's thumb over. And then he made her press down.

"That there's a dead man's switch," he explained. He flung his arm out, gesturing to the rest of the bank. "We've wired a little present to the foundation supports in your basement. Just…don't let go. And we'll all be fine."

The Joker walked back to where he had left the bank manager and grabbed the man by his tie, pulling him along like a dog on a leash.

""Let's go do some business."

Monroe made to follow them, slipping her screwdriver back up her sleeve.

"You didn't have a gun."

She turned around. The woman was staring at her in surprise, and more than a little bit of hate.

"I never said I did." Monroe nodded at the switch in her hands. "But I doubt the Joker plays the same bluffs as I do. Drop that and this place goes boom."

Monroe left the Joker's men to guard their hostages and headed towards the vault. She found the Joker and the bank manager standing in front of the 20-tonne vault door, which was still tightly shut.

"It's on a time lock," the man was trying to explain. "Even if I wanted to, I can't get inside the vault until ten."

Monroe ran her eyes over the vault door.

"He's telling the truth."

The Joker clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in annoyance.

"Well, I guess you're no use to me."

Monroe's eyes widened as the meaning on his words sunk in. She hurried to the Joker's side as he withdrew a handgun and slapped wildly at his arm. It threw his aim off and the bullet struck the bank manager in his knee, instead of through his heart. The anger that rolled of the Joker in waves sent chills up Monroe's spine. She could tell that he was considering turning the weapon on her. Best to diffuse the situation quickly.

"We still need him," she said, keeping her voice calm and measured. "I can get us through that vault door but the safety deposit boxes in there work on a Swiss system. We need three keys that have to be turned at the same time. And he has those keys."

Monroe could practically see the vein throbbing at the Joker's temple.

"I suggest…that you get to work, _Ghost_," the Joker ground out, his voice barely held in check.

Monroe didn't need to be told twice. She immediately turned her attention to the safe's door, noted that it was a Mosler engineered vault, and felt a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. Mosler vaults were world famous for their unparalleled ability to withstand the devastating impact of an atomic bomb. During World War II, when the United States destroyed Hiroshima, tens of thousands of people lost their lives. Yet not one but two Mosler bank vaults survived the disaster with nary a scratch on them. Whatever the Black Mask had in his safety deposit box must have been very, _very_ important to him.

Too bad he didn't know about the Mosler's lesser-known reputation: the vault had a hack. To be fair, it was a secret jealously guarded by the underworld's master thieves. Fortunately for them, Monroe had at one time spent a whole year training under one of those masters.

She reached for the first of the two tumblers and pressed it in thrice. She pressed the second tumbler six times, pressed the first twice more, gave the steel plate right next to the tumbler a solid kick, and spun the handle wheel counter clockwise. There came the heavy groan of the bolts drawing back.

"And we're in," muttered Monroe, eye gleaming with barely suppressed excitement.

The call she had made to Aiden had given her the Black Mask's safety deposit box number. Monroe made a mental note to get him the most amazing present ever when this was all over. She still didn't know how he managed to break into the systems of some of the world's most secure online databases and never get caught, but she was glad she had him on her side. He had reassured her that he and his family were safe, though Monroe knew she'd feel better once she was sure that the Black Mask was no longer a threat.

"That one."

The Joker pulled the bank manager to his feet and grinned menacingly at him.

"Show time!"

The bank manager didn't even try to put up a fight or offer any excuses. The Joker propped him up against the deposit boxes near the one they wanted. The man loosened his tie, looking a bit pale and sweating buckets. Standing must have been excruciating but he did not complain. Unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt, he drew out a thin chain; on the end of which hung three shining keys. He inserted them into their respective locks. Monroe and the Joker reached for a key each.

"On the count of three," said Monroe, looking both men in the eye to make sure they understood. "One. Two. Three!"

The door swung open silently. The Joker pushed them aside and lugged the box onto one of the many metal trucks that the vault contained. He stood it on its end and studied the lock on it, sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth. He turned back to the bank manager.

"You don't happen to have a master key, do you?" he asked, as if he hadn't just shot the other man two minutes ago.

The man very obligingly pushed up his left sleeve and removed the brass key that dangled on the thick bracelet he wore. The Joker held out his hand for it.

"Thank you."

The Joker jammed the key in its lock, twisted it, rubbed his hands together gleefully and flipped open the lid of the safety deposit box. Inside, they found a stack of letters addressed to Roman Sionis in a delicate, feminine hand; a thick stack of crisp hundred dollar bills; a black velvet bag that held a handful of uncut diamonds; and a bulky looking manila envelope. Monroe reached for the envelope, ignoring everything else. The Joker watched as she slid it down the collar of her top, so that the envelope rested between the camisole she wore under her long sleeved shirt and her bare skin.

"We're done here."

The Joker cast a quick glance down at the more valuable contents of the box, before staring at her with a disconcerting, but undecipherable, expression. And then he nodded. They left the bank manager, bleeding profusely, inside the vault.

They found the Joker's henchmen right where they had left them. Monroe felt an unexpected sense of relief that no one else had been shot in their absence. The woman was still holding the dead man's switch, though her hand was starting to shake. Wordlessly, the Joker headed towards the fire escape. The others followed close behind. The Joker took the stairs two at a time and Monroe found herself grudgingly admiring his stores of energy. She wondered if he had downed several cans of Red Bull before the heist. Less than three minutes later, the four of them burst onto the empty roof of the bank.

"Now what?" asked one of the goons.

Gotham General Bank & Trust was a freestanding building. One side faced a completely glass fronted skyscraper, one side faced a series of high-end shopping boutiques, one side faced a parking complex, and one side opened out onto a public park. There was at least a fifteen-foot gap between the building they were on and the next. Monroe grabbed one of the remaining duffel bags off of the nearest hired thug. It was then that he noticed that the Ghost and his Boss had not returned with any visible loot.

"Where's the cash?"

"There isn't any," muttered Monroe as she rummaged around in the bag. Zipping it back up, she reached for the other one.

"Then what was the point of all this!"

Without warning, the Joker pointed his gun at his own man and shot him right between the eyes. Monroe's head shot up, looked between the Joker and the quickly cooling corpse, and went back to the task at hand.

"Feel better?" she asked distractedly.

"Much," said the Joker dryly.

The remaining thug cast his eyes about the roof, pretending that his Boss had not just shot his colleague. Finding the zip line gun, Monroe walked towards the edge of the building that faced the car park, took aim and fired. Their man went first with one of the duffel bags across his back. He did not even mention the obvious fact that they were using him as a guinea pig to test the line's strength. The Joker zipped across next. Monroe slung her duffel bag onto her back, an arm slipped into each handle so that she wore it like a backpack. She had to bite her lip to keep from whooping in pure joy. There really were few things more thrilling than flying across a large gap with a deadly drop below her and no safety harness on. She did not even bother cutting the line once she reached the other side. She had made sure that the police wouldn't have been able to trace any of their equipment back to them. Several rock-climbing enthusiasts living in upscale Gotham, however, would soon find themselves receiving a visit from the city's finest. The Joker and his thug were already halfway across the car park. Monroe ran to catch up.

Monroe had bandaged up her wound earlier that morning, wrapping it tightly. That combined with the adrenaline pumping in her system made whatever pain she might have felt pretty much non-existent. She grinned deliriously. It had been a while since she had had this much fun.

As they traversed roof after roof, making their way to the pre-arranged rendezvous point, the grin on Monroe's face grew wider and wider. But it was not longer just the rush of the job that was spurring her on. She could feel the envelope resting against her chest. With it, she and the Joker were going to take down one of Gotham's emerging crime lords.

With it, she was going to bring the Black Mask to his knees.

* * *

Btch**: Yes, Monroe's her own special type of crazy. That's why we love her. Haha!**

Love-ly. Love-lyLovely45**: I agree that this story's definitely worth the effort. I find that bits of Monroe and the Joker's personalities are starting to creep their way into other things I write too. I think they're slowly taking over my brain. I will miss Teddy but MONROE WILL HAVE HER REVENGE! REVEEEEEENGE! I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

Latenightreader**: It's all right. I know that sometimes it's hard to review every single chapter. But thank you for leaving a review so frequently. I swear; you're a bloody legend. Yeah, it is getting a bit intense. Honestly, I just feel kind of bad for the citizens of Gotham.**

**Random info:**

_Abyssus abyssum invocat _**colloquially translated means **"Two wrongs do not make a right"**. But I agree with Monroe. The literal translation sounds a whole lot more awe-inspiring.**

**You'll notice a bit of Latin in this chapter. Here are some other quotes I liked that didn't fit with the story:**

Flectere si nequeo superos, Achaeronta movebo** – If I cannot move heaven I will raise hell (Virgil, **_**Aeneid Book 7**_**)**

**Qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum**** – **_**Let him who wishes for peace prepare for war. (Vegetius). Similarly, ****Si vis pacem, para bellum**** – **__**If you wish to have peace you should be prepared for war.**_

**Illegitimis nil carborundum__****– **_**Don't let the bastards grind you down (apparently a mock-Latin phrase that originated during WWII)**_

_**And finally, my favourite…**_

**Quid quid latine dictum sit, altum videtur__****– **_**Anything said in Latin sounds profound**_

**By the way, that thing about the Mosler vaults being atomic bomb proof is true. However, Monroe's hack is not. I strongly do NOT suggest trying it if you ever come across a Mosler safe.**

**Remember to leave a review. You know I love hearing back from you guys! Though if you're going to leave a flame…at least make it constructive so I know what to correct.**

**Feed my habit!**

**Much love,**

**Scribbles**


	11. 10

**A/N: I seem to apologise a lot. Sorry for disappearing for a year. After getting back from St. Petersburg, work got a little crazy. Like I told **ChidorixCixBritannia**, it's good for my bank account, not so much for my writing. If anyone's still out there, thank you for being patient. And thank you all for getting the reviews over 80!**

**Special thanks goes out to **OCCentric** who added this story to his/her Batman Begins/Dark Knight community, "**Gotham's Finest**". I'm glad you thought Monroe was good enough to make the cut.**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.**

* * *

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"_Thus passes the glory of the world"_

...

By Scribbles-Dementia

...

10

* * *

Monroe laughed as she leapt over the body of the Joker's goon. The man had landed wrongly on the last jump. It was a good thing he had thrown his weight forward instead of back, or else the city would have had to send someone to scrape him off of the sidewalk. He scowled at her as he picked himself up and limped after them. Neither Monroe nor the Joker slowed their pace.

Three blocks away, on the roof of Gotham's Public Library, Monroe retrieved the rappelling gear she had stashed behind a turbine ventilator. The Joker and his man watched silently as she set up the ropes, tossing them a harness each once she was done. Without waiting to see if they knew how to don the harnesses, Monroe threw the rappelling ropes over the side of the library, cast the men a challenging grin, and launched herself off the roof.

This was what she lived for. She experienced a few short seconds of weightlessness as she hung, suspended, in midair. And then gravity took over, sending her plummeting towards the ground. But Monroe had done this enough times to know just when to throw her weight to the side, swinging herself into the building instead. Her legs were already braced for the impact, bending with the motion, so that she hardly felt anything as her feet landed on the brick wall. And then she pushed off again, gave herself some more slack on the rope and swung down. She repeated the action until she landed in the street below the library, right next to an ice cream truck. Their driver had been standing by the vehicle the entire time and had seen her progress down the side of the building. He shook his head as he gave her a look that was part impressed, part annoyed.

"You're crazy, you know that?"

Monroe grinned, the adrenaline making her much more affable.

"You just don't know how to have fun."

"No. I'd just prefer to live."

Monroe stared at him, pausing in the middle of un-strapping herself from her harness.

"Then you're in the wrong line of work, buddy."

Their conversation was cut short as the Joker's other goon slipped and fell the remaining eight feet, hitting the concrete sidewalk hard. His scream of pain had Monroe cringing. His leg was bent in an unnatural way that told her it had to be broken. The Joker tittered as he landed next to his man, deliberately kicking him in the injured leg. It would seem that he enjoyed flying through the air almost as much as Monroe did, for he didn't immediately shoot his fallen man. Instead, the Joker picked up the duffel bag the man had dropped as he fell and tossed it to the driver. And then he calmly stepped over the injured goon and climbed into the back of the ice cream truck. The sound of sirens could be heard in the distance.

"And that's our cue," said the driver, scrambling into the vehicle.

Monroe looked back at the injured man, feeling more than just a slight tinge of annoyance. She knew he would talk. It wasn't like he owed them anything and they _were_ leaving him behind.

"Ghost! Move it!" yelled the driver.

She scowled. Let him talk. Let word get out that The Ghost had allied herself with the Joker. Let the Black Mask think on that little fact and consider what the partnership might mean for him. After all, this job was all about the message. She slammed the door shut behind her as she got into the ice cream truck.

The driver did not speed up immediately as he pulled away from their parking spot. He did not swerve through traffic trying to put as much distance between them and the man they abandoned. He even made way, as did all the other vehicles around them, for the police cars that came tearing past them in the opposite direction, sirens blaring. Monroe had to hand it to him; he was good.

They had barely driven a block when Monroe suddenly found herself pinned against the wall of the truck with a straight razor pressed against her throat. The Joker smacked his lips together.

"You and I," he applied more pressure on the blade, "need to have a little talk."

The driver was wisely keeping his eyes on the road, never once looking into the rear-view mirror. The Joker brought his face closer to Monroe's. If he were hoping to intimidate her, he would have been sorely disappointed. Monroe met his gaze straight on.

"Well, you have my attention. Talk."

The Joker growled.

"Never…_ever_…undermine me again." Monroe didn't need to ask to know he was talking about the bank manager she had stopped him from killing. "The next time you pull a stunt like that, you'll be the one with a bullet in the brainpan."

Monroe narrowed her eyes, but knew it would have been pointless to remind the Joker that they had needed the bank manager alive. She gave him the smallest of nods.

And just like that, the blade disappeared back up his sleeve and the Joker grinned down at Monroe as if he had not just threatened to kill her. Monroe resisted the urge to roll her eyes as she rubbed her neck. The movement drew the Joker's eyes to something else on her neck that he had noticed before but never paid much attention to. Before Monroe knew what was happening, the Joker had pushed her over his knees, the usual braid she wore on jobs wrapped tightly around one of his hands. Monroe struggled but the Joker's hand on the small of her back kept her in place. This was no mean feat considering the cramped space in the back of the ice cream truck. The driver purposefully ignored them.

"What the hell?" yelled Monroe. "Let go!"

But the Joker simply shushed her, leaning over to peer at the back of her neck. Monroe wriggled her arms, trying to get her elbow into a position where she could dig it into a painful part of his anatomy, but the Joker was surprisingly strong. Then, just as abruptly as he had grabbed her, the Joker let her go. Monroe righted herself in time to catch a thoughtful look on his face.

"What. The. Hell?" she repeated.

The Joker shrugged.

"Just admiring the body art."

Monroe scowled.

"How about you mind your own business?"

He cast her an overly sympathetic look that reeked of insincerity.

"Want to talk about it?"

Monroe bit her lip to keep from snapping at him. She knew the Joker was baiting her, though she did not know why. Then again, it was the Joker. He never really needed a good reason for doing the things he did. So she plastered on her most guileless smile.

"Aww! You _do_ care!"

The Joker recognised her diversion for what it was but, thankfully, did not push the matter. He smirked at her, seeming to find her forced nonchalance amusing, before clambering into the front of the ice cream truck.

"Phone!" he snapped, holding his hand out expectantly towards their driver.

Monroe listened with half an ear as the Joker barked out orders for their hideout to be relocated. He wasn't taking any chances with the man they had left behind betraying their location. As he reminded whoever was on the other end of the line to pick up lunch as well, she reached up for the still healing brand on her neck.

Of all the cuts, bruises, wounds and scars she had received over the years, Monroe hated this one the most. The skull shaped burn was more than just a wound; it was a sign of possession. The Black Mask had marked her as his, as if she were no more than cattle. It did not just remind her of the time she had spent as his captive. It was a reminder of every single moment in her life where she was weak and helpless. And Monroe hated feeling that way.

After Morgan had abandoned her, Monroe had bounced around several more foster homes before finally taking matters into her own hands. Living on the streets had been hard but it had instilled in her a strange sense of independence and pride. It taught her that she could not depend on anyone else but herself, because if she did, she would only get hurt later. In first the nine years she spent as a street urchin, Monroe kept her mouth shut and her eyes open, learning what she could from the more experienced gang kids; picking pockets, hotwiring cars, running ATM scams. Being that young made her quite impressionable despite the hardened shell she had developed and unfortunately, or fortunately depending on who you asked, the only people in her life at that point did not exactly have functioning moral compasses, giving her a rather warped sense of right and wrong. If Monroe were honest with herself, she could have turned out just like the Black Mask or the Joker had it not been for a completely chance encounter with the man she eventually came to call 'dad'. He had taught her that strength was not always physical and that, sometimes, walking away was the better option to hitting back.

Monroe sighed. Her dad would be so disappointed.

* * *

People kept the most interesting things in their safety deposit boxes, trusting in a fallible system to keep their most treasured possessions safe. Sure, there were the usual marriage certificates, birth certificates, social security cards, copies of wills, title deeds for property, stock certificates and jewellery. Then there were the more unusual items. During Monroe's stint as an apprentice to a master thief, they had come across quite a few curious contents secreted away in safety deposit boxes. There had been a box that held a set of glass eyeballs, all of a different colour. There was that one that held a rather impressive porn collection, along with a little black book that contained explicit details of every single one of its owner's 'conquests'. Monroe's favourite, though, had to be the box that had nothing in it except a single, mint condition #2 pencil, sharpened to an extreme point.

But Monroe wasn't interested in who the Black Mask had slept with or if he had any embarrassing secrets. This time, the mundane was exactly what she needed.

Someone had told her once; all a man had in the world were his business, his possessions and his name. Right now, the Black Mask may be a voice in the shadows, an elusive figure, nearly untouchable. But Roman Sionis was nothing more than a man.

And Monroe was going to destroy him.

It shouldn't be too hard. After all, he had pretty much done half the work for her, running Janus Cosmetics into the ground. But Sionis was still a name to be respected from what she had gathered at the Wayne Foundation Ball. The family may not be as wealthy as it had once been, but it was still ridiculously rich. Monroe had the feeling that that was how the Black Mask was funding his operation, using what was left of the sizeable inheritance that mommy and daddy had left him.

The sound of clinking glass caught her attention. Monroe looked up to see the driver from earlier that morning sit down across from her, two bottles of beer in one hand and a paper plate in the other. He held out the beer and, for a moment, Monroe flashed back to the last time someone had handed her a drink. She ruthlessly pushed that memory to one side before she could get overly emotional and accepted the cold bottle.

"Saved you a piece," he said, placing the paper plate down on the floor next to her. Pizza. Again.

"Thanks," she muttered unenthusiastically, turning her attention back to the documents strewed around her.

The man picked up a yellowing sheet of paper and frowned.

"Who's Roman Sionis? Name sounds familiar."

"Our mark," Monroe replied without looking up from the document she was reading.

"I thought you and the Boss were after the Black Mask?"

"We are."

"Then why – "

Monroe reached out and snatched the birth certificate out of his hands.

"Don't worry your pretty little head about it. Let us do the scheming and plotting, okay?"

The man fell silent, watching the woman he suspected was certifiably crazy sitting on the floor surrounded by numerous loose sheets of paper, the contents of which made no sense to him. Why the heck did the Ghost seem so interested in land deeds and some dead guy's will? Her head snapped up ten minutes later when he still hadn't moved and she fixed him with a glare that made him want to put as much distance between them as possible.

"What are you still doing here?"

"Boss' orders," he replied quickly. "Supposed to keep an eye on you."

Monroe rolled her eyes.

"Honestly! Where's the trust?"

"I don't think the Boss trusts anyone," he placated.

Monroe huffed and took a swig of her beer.

"Speaking of, where is he?"

"Up in the bell tower."

Monroe eyed the little wooden door that led up to the bell tower, tucked away in a corner of the old church's main worship hall. The irony of a villainous hideout in the gutted near ruins of an abandoned church was not lost on her. Some of the men, good little Catholic boys, had looked distinctly uncomfortable when they had first pulled up at the building, continuously crossing themselves until the Joker barked at them to cut it out. Monroe wasn't overly religious herself. In fact, she didn't really care either way. But, she figured, if there were a God, He'd probably appreciate having one less person whining at Him. Hey, might as well use the gifts He'd given her to take care of herself, right?

The man almost dropped his beer in surprise when Monroe suddenly rose to her feet. She dusted herself off and marched, purposefully, though with a slight limp, towards the church's front doors.

"Where are you going?"

"To make a phone call," she called back over her shoulder.

He had to jog to catch up to her. Digging into his pockets, he pulled out a cell phone and offered to her.

"You could've just asked."

Monroe stopped suddenly, rounding on him, with an exaggerated look of patience on her face.

"Cell phones can be traced. I need to make a secure call."

"If the cops can trace my cell, what makes you think they won't be able to trace you from wherever you're going to call from?"

Monroe simply smiled knowingly at him. Without answering his question, she turned on her heels and burst out the doors. The man stared despairingly at her retreating back, shot a frightened look at the little wooden door in the corner, and hurried out after her.

* * *

The Black Mask unwound the tourniquet from his arm, allowing himself to relax into his chair as the morphine worked its way into his system. A bitter laugh escaped his lips as his head rolled back and he stared blankly up at the ceiling.

The cornices were different. The workmen hadn't quite been able to exactly duplicate all the little details in the mansion when he had it rebuilt. But he preferred it that way; very little in the mansion reminded him of his mother or his father; less memories to taunt him.

He allowed himself a full half hour of mindless, drug-induced bliss before forcing himself to get up. Rolling his sleeves back down, the Black Mask burst through the room's double doors, startling Mariano who was just coming up the corridor.

"Boss?"

The Black Mask casually re-buttoned his shirt cuffs, fixing Mariano with a hard stare.

"This had better be important, Mr. Mariano."

The other man swallowed audibly.

"Uh…the Doc says you might want to come down to the lab."

The lab was really nothing more than a glorified basement. An ornately carved mahogany table that had once resided in the mansion's opulent dining room had been brought down and now served as a makeshift examination table. The lighting was good though the same could not be said for the ventilation. The smell of death and soiled animal bedding permeated the lab, causing Mariano to gag as he entered the room. Jonathan Crane pulled down his face mask as the Black Mask stalked into the lab, an overly enthusiastic grin threatening to split his face into two. A cheap plastic cage, the kind hamsters or mice were often kept in, sat on the incongruous dining table.

"What do you have for me, Doctor?"

"We need more test subjects," Crane said by way of a greeting, waving his hand at the wall of plastic cages in one corner of the basement, all of them filled with dead hamsters. "But we have one survivor."

Crane peered into the cage, looking very much like a proud parent. A lone hamster was on the wheel, seeming very content and healthy. The Black Mask tapped lightly on the roof of the cage. The hamster ignored him.

"How long?"

"Almost three days. The rest died within hours."

The Black Mask reached out for one of the many glass vials on the table, each of them containing a clear liquid. This one had been marked with the Roman numeral six.

"I need to run more blood tests," continued Crane distractedly as he watched the hamster running on its little wheel. "Thus the need for more subjects."

The Black Mask held the vial up to the light. If he hadn't known any better, he would have thought it held nothing more dangerous than water.

"How soon before we can move on to human testing?"

Crane looked up from the cage, a maniacal gleam in his eyes.

"How soon can you bring me a test subject?"

* * *

Monroe was not happy. Taking a deep breath, she counted to ten and tried to ignore the men who were quietly snickering at her. Though she supposed she'd be laughing too if it were someone _else_ in her place, trailing after the Joker like one of those annoying, yappy lapdogs. She had a feeling he was doing this on purpose. And then he stopped abruptly, causing her to walk right into his back. The Joker seemed not to notice, turning around to call out to one of the men watching them.

"Frankie!"

Frankie, as it turned out, was the driver from their little bank heist. He nervously got up from where he was playing poker with a few other goons.

"Yeah, Boss?"

The Joker looked down at Monroe, who was rubbing her nose, trying to ease the pain caused from colliding into him. Honestly, it had felt a bit like walking into a wall.

"Use him."

Monroe sized up the other man before exhaling sharply in annoyance.

"Fine!"

However, just because the Joker was being deliberately stubborn didn't mean that he wasn't curious. Which was why two hours later found him sitting next to Monroe, in the passenger seat of a luxury sedan. Frankie was sitting in the back seat, clearly uncomfortable in his new role. Neither man looked like himself.

Monroe had used a combination of makeup and nose and scar wax to blend the Joker's scars into his skin, completely changing the appearance of the lower half of his face. It was amazing the things one could learn off YouTube. She had talked him into using a temporary dye to darken his hair and that coupled with the off-the-rack suit he was wearing made him look like any other working schmuck.

Frankie pulled at the collar of the silk shirt Monroe had forced him into. He wore a mid-range business suit; a brand no blue-collar worker would be able to afford, yet not quite Wall Street. His hair had been properly styled, making the cut look far more expensive than it actually was and his shoes shone like mirrors. He wore black contacts and she had placed putty in his cheeks to reshape his jawline. It distorted his voice, but she didn't him to talk.

Monroe touched up her lipstick in the rear-view mirror, did one final check to make sure her wig was secure, and grinned at her accomplices.

"Ready boys?"

"Remind me again what we're doing here?" hissed the Joker as they walked into the marbled lobby of the offices of Medeia and Comyn, the lawyers in charge of the Sionis estate.

"Playing the game," smirked Monroe.

The receptionist behind the desk smiled welcomingly up at them, hesitating only for the briefest of moments when Monroe told her their reason for being there. As she followed Frankie and the Joker towards the elevators, clipping her visitor's pass onto her lapel, she could already see the other woman on the phone, no doubt gossiping away with the other secretaries in the building.

Shannon Comyn himself was there to greet them when they stepped out of the elevator on the ninety-fourth storey. He was a balding, small, round man with nervous, fluttering hands. Monroe had done her research and knew that his partner, Jacob Medeia had been dead for the last five years.

"Ah, Miss Reynard?" he greeted uncertainly, shaking Monroe's hand for far longer than was necessary.

Monroe smiled pleasantly at the old man.

"So nice of you to see us at such short notice, Mr. Comyn," she purred, her accent that of a home grown Oxford scholar. "May I introduce my colleague, Arnold Lyesmith. He's been my liaison here in America. And, of course, my client, Fitz Sionis."

If possible, Comyn suddenly became even more nervous as he shook the other men's hands. Monroe supposed it was one small mercy. Comyn was getting too flustered to notice that Frankie was just as anxious.

The lawyer led them into a large conference room overlooking the city. Monroe ignored the view, while Frankie seated himself as fast as possible. The Joker dropped his briefcase on the table and walked towards the floor-to-ceiling windows. Comyn cleared his throat.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Water's just fine," Monroe replied, reaching into her own briefcase for the documents she needed. Frankie nodded, wordlessly.

Comyn stuck his head out of the room to bark their drink order at a passing intern. Monroe watched as the little man settled himself into a chair on the other side of the conference table. When he looked up, the nervousness was gone, replaced by the quiet confidence that had won him numerous court cases and made his firm one of the best in Gotham city. Monroe smiled. Now things were getting interesting.

"I have to admit, Miss Reynard," said Comyn, waving away the intern once she had poured water out for each of them, "your claim sounds very farfetched."

"I suppose it does," Monroe admitted with an elegant shrug of her shoulders. "But not at all implausible." She shot him a shrewd look. "Am I right?"

Comyn cleared his throat uncomfortably, readjusting his tie in a bid to avoid answering her question.

"It's been over ten years. Why did you decide to wait so long, Mr. Sionis?"

Monroe answered before Frankie could even open his mouth.

"Until a year ago, my client had no idea he was a Sionis. You know how it is, Mr. Comyn. His mother married a good man who never complained about bringing up a child who was not his own. She wasn't about to spill the beans, as it were. At least, not until her husband's passing."

"Be that as it may," huffed Comyn, "it's been a long while. Were you to try and make a claim on the Sionis estate now, it would only lead to a lengthy legal battle."

"And we are prepared for that, Mr. Comyn," Monroe shot back. "My client deserves what's due to him."

Comyn eyed the blonde woman sitting across the table. She smiled winningly at him, but there was a hardness in her eyes that told him she was no delicate English rose. If this went to court, she would undoubtedly have no qualms about tearing them apart and taking them for every penny. He straightened his tie again.

"What are we talking about here?"

Monroe's smile grew into a predatory grin.

"Half the Sionis estate." She paused. "As was its value at the time of the reading of the will."

Comyn protested violently, his face turning an alarming shade of red.

"But that amounts to the entire value of the current estate!"

He suddenly clamped his mouth shut, obviously not meaning to have given that titbit of information away.

"It's what my client's entitled to," Monroe countered.

The Joker had seemed to pay little attention to their entire exchange but Comyn's latest outburst appeared to have caught his interest. Monroe winced internally when he walked away from the windows and plopped himself down onto one of the many upholstered chairs, a none-too-reassuring grin on his lips. Comyn suddenly sat up straighter in his chair, clearing his throat uncomfortably.

"Miss Reynard, what you are proposing will ruin _my_ client."

"From what I hear, Mr. Comyn, your client is perfectly capable of doing that all by himself," said Monroe, seemingly distracted as she flipped through the pages of the document before her before coming to the section she was looking for. She flipped the document around and nudged it towards him, finger poised above the relevant paragraph. "It says here that the estate is to be divided _equally_ amongst all remaining family members. Your client had his share. It's not our problem he squandered it."

"Miss Reynard, you have to understand," Comyn began. Monroe cut him off.

"We will be filing a claim with City Hall, Mr. Comyn. And unless we can come to some sort of agreement, the funds from the Sionis estate will be frozen while we settle this in court. Wouldn't want _your_ client spending the rest of _my_ client's inheritance," she smirked.

Comyn sputtered indignantly, having gone from red to purple. Monroe decided it would only be kind to stop now before the man had a heart attack. Standing up, she held her hand out across the table.

"It's been a pleasure, Mr. Comyn. We'll be in touch."

And with that, Monroe ushered Frankie and the Joker out of the room, neither of them having uttered a word the entire time they had been there.

The Joker watched the woman as she bounced on her heels throughout the elevator ride back down. She was humming some nonsensical tune and he suspected she was curbing the urge to squeal out loud. Frankie undid his tie and finally spoke up.

"What just happened?"

"Our opening move," the Joker replied.

Monroe grinned up at him. He _got_ it.

Frankie frowned. He recalled the sales pitch the Ghost had given his Boss back in the abandoned amusement park.

"Wouldn't that have been the bank?"

Monroe shook her head.

"That was more of an invitation to play the game."

Frankie wisely kept silent, figuring it would be easier to just accept that his Boss and the Ghost would know what they were doing. Climbing back into their stolen car, Monroe drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she joined the rest of the traffic heading towards Gotham's city centre.

"We're not done yet?" asked Frankie, realising that they were travelling further away from their hideout.

"Nope," said Monroe, popping the 'p'. "We're going to City Hall." Her lips quirked at the smirk she could see spreading across the Joker's lips. "Threats only work if you make good on them."

* * *

It was quiet in the Bat Bunker, the only source of light coming from the wall of computer screens at one end of the long room. Bruce Wayne sat in front of his elaborate setup re-watching the security recordings from that morning's hold up at Gotham General Bank & Trust. He was still dressed as the Batman, having only removed his cowl. He watched as the Ghost stopped one of the bank employees from triggering the silent alarm and then, mere moments later, prevented the Joker from killing the bank manager. She made no attempt to hide her face this time. She didn't loop the security feed or try to take out the cameras.

The man they had arrested a couple blocks away from the bank had sung like a bird. But his information hadn't exactly been helpful. By the time they had assembled a team to raid the amusement park; the Joker had already relocated. And all he would tell them about the Ghost was that the woman was as crazy, if not crazier, than the Joker. He had also mentioned someone called the Black Mask and something about a game.

Bruce ran his hands down his face. He was getting sick and tired of dead ends.

He hadn't found any prints when he had taken apart the auto dialler. Whoever built it had been careful. In a last ditch desperate attempt, he had swabbed the entire thing for DNA. Surprisingly, he found a miniscule amount of what he thought might have been sweat and entered the results into CODIS, hoping to get lucky.

Bruce frowned, returning his attention to the recordings. They had only broken into one box. He had checked with Gordon and there had been over a million dollars worth of valuables in that vault, and all they had taken was a thick manila envelope. What were they up to? And why were they targeting Roman Sionis?

Bruce tried to suppress the feeling of unease that crept down his spine.

Standing up abruptly, he moved over to the table where the Ghost's possessions were laid out. He had been over them enough times to commit every single item to memory: the pillowcase full of prescription drugs, the lock picks, two different sets of screwdrivers, the vial of Blue-ringed Octopus venom, a compact mirror, a small flashlight, the Burgess novella, and a few changes of clothes. Everything a thief might need, and none of it told him anything.

Picking up the backpack, he turned it over his hands. The brand was something generic and virtually untraceable. It looked fairly new, no more than a couple of months old. As he turned it towards the light of the computer screens, something inside the bag caught his attention. His frown deepened.

Bruce wasn't sure how he had missed it before. There was something stuck on the inside of the backpack. Gently peeling it away from the dark canvas material, he realised that it was a set of blueprints. The docks; the Ghost had looked like she had just crawled out of the water. Getting soaked like that must have caused the blueprints to stick to the sides of the backpack, blending in with the black canvas.

There seemed to be little chance of saving it. The ink had bled and the blueprints themselves looked to have been quite old to begin with. But any lead was worth pursuing at this point.

Just then, a high-pitched beeping cut through the silence of the Bat Bunker. Bruce's head snapped towards the screens, his lips pressing into a thin, grim smile. There, flashing across the bottom left screen in bold red letters, were the words 'DNA MATCH'.

* * *

**A/N: I apologise if there are any grammar or spelling mistakes. Decided not to wait to edit since I've kept you guys waiting long enough. That said, I'll be going back and editing previous chapters. Was re-reading this and I realised how many mistakes I made. Plus there are little factual things that bother me. Like that bit about Monroe picking her handcuffs; that should only take seconds, not minutes. Silly me.**

**Random info:**

**That bit about the #2 pencil in a safety deposit box is completely true. Apparently, strange things found in safety deposit boxes include: stickers from bananas, rulers, a half pack of cigarettes, twigs and stones, drugs, ethnic Pakistani jewellery, and a single red high-heeled shoe.**

**Did anyone spot the Leverage reference?**

**Thanks to all my loyal readers for sticking around and putting up with me. And to any new readers, I hope you're enjoying the story so far.**

**Much love,**

**Scribbles**


	12. 11

**A/N: I'm leaving on holiday in a few hours so I rushed to finish this so you guys have something to read over Christmas. Though this chapter really isn't very Christmas-y.**

**I forgot to mention before, but with the release of The Dark Knight Rises, I suppose this story is now AU.**

**If you get notifications about previous chapters, this is just because I've gone back and edited them. There will be no huge plot changes and you won't have to go back and re-read anything. It's more to placate my inner Grammar Nazi than anything else.**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter. And to my silent readers, I hope you're enjoying the ride so far.**

**Special thanks goes out to **LulayLullaby** for adding this story to his/her community, "**Feckless**" and to **EverybodyLovesMe15** for spreading the word!**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.**

* * *

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

"_Thus passes the glory of the world"_

...

By Scribbles-Dementia

...

11

* * *

It was a lavish bedroom, musty but well furnished. An emaciated, blonde woman sat on the edge of the bed, her overly large blue eyes taking in her surroundings. She had never been in such a nice room before. She suddenly felt very out of place in her skimpy, but tacky, leopard print mini-dress and five inch see-through heels.

The skinny woman rubbed at the inside of her elbow self-consciously.

The man that had pulled up at her corner had seemed normal enough. He wasn't handsome but he hadn't looked like a complete gargoyle either. He had tried to bargain her price down and she normally wouldn't have said yes, except it had been a slow night and he'd promised that he knew somewhere they could go to score coke. She was already coming off her high from the hit she had earlier that night and the man had seemed harmless.

That had been hours ago. The man had left her in this room, saying something about going to get his boss. She had helped herself to the fresh fruits and the pitcher of water sitting on one of the bedside tables. And, at some point, she fell asleep.

Now, by the light of day, she was starting to have second thoughts. This certainly wasn't her strangest john. There had been that one guy who wanted her to pee on him. Now _that_ was weird. But this was the first time she had slept over at a client's place, even if it was inadvertently. It didn't help that she'd tried the door only to discover that she had been locked in.

The woman started when she heard someone unlocking the door. She stood up, unconsciously running her hands down her dress to get rid of the wrinkles.

The man who walked into the room was not the same one who had picked her up the night before. This man was extremely good looking with the most dazzling blue eyes she had ever seen. But the completely clinical way he was looking at her made her feel like one of those lab mice that had failed to make it through the test maze. She cleared her throat and attempted a shaky smile. She clenched her hands into tight fists, hoping that the trembling in them wasn't that obvious.

"How are you feeling?"

Of all the things she had expected him to say; that was not one of them. Her smile wavered.

"Fine." She shrugged. "I guess."

The man tapped his fingers against his lips. Walking past her, he picked up the half empty pitcher, swirled the remaining water around, and set it back down.

"When was the last time you had a drink?"

She frowned.

"Um…last night. Actually," she looked around, "you have a bathroom around here?"

The man straightened and smiled disarmingly.

"Of course. Where are my manners?"

He guided her out of the room with a hand on her lower back. She could feel the heat of his hand through her thin dress. Her knees buckled.

"Woah there," he laughed, as he steadied her.

She blushed.

"Sorry," she murmured. "Always was a bit of a klutz."

"No need to apologise," he said gently, opening one of the doors along the hallway. "Here we are."

She opened her mouth to thank him, only to find herself fighting off a sudden bout of nausea. Rushing to the toilet, she violently emptied the contents of her stomach. She retched until there was nothing left but bile and stomach acid. She needed her fix. She hated going through withdrawal.

She tried to push herself off the tiled floor, but couldn't feel her arms. In fact, she couldn't feel any of her limbs. She looked down at her hand and tried to wriggle fingers. Nothing happened.

"What's happening?" she cried; only her tongue was getting in the way and the sound that came out from her mouth did not resemble speech at all. "What…"

Her head felt heavy and it was getting harder and harder to breath. Eyes widened in fear, she looked up at the man and tried to reach out to him. This wasn't withdrawal. This was something else.

"Help me! Please!"

He tilted his head, curiously, to the side. Gone was the radiant, almost kind, smile. His blue eyes were cold and detached – analytical – as he watched her struggling to get up off the bathroom floor.

"Hmm? I'm sorry. What were you saying? Didn't quite catch that."

The woman opened her mouth again; or she tried to, her jaw refused to move. She couldn't breathe either. It felt like she was being smothered. Her head was getting heavier and heavier. She noticed how the man's fingers twitched, like he was aching to take notes. She watched in mounting terror as the man stooped down next to her.

"How are you feeling now?"

Her heart was racing. It was beating way too fast. She should never have gotten into that car. It was always the normal looking ones you had to watch out for.

The man wouldn't just let her die, would he? What kind of human being just stood there and watched, doing nothing, while another person died?

He picked up her limp hand. His skin felt too hot against hers. Or was she too cold? He patted the back of her hand. It almost felt like a reassuring gesture.

"There, there. It won't be long now."

Footsteps echoed down the hallway, stopping by the open bathroom door. The blonde looked up at the newcomer and wanted to scream. The man, at least she thought it was a man, was like something out of a nightmare. He didn't have a face – not a normal human one anyway. His eyes seemed like sunken holes in his head and his teeth were exposed, like he had no lips to cover them.

"Doctor?"

The blue-eyed man let go of her hand, moving to stand with the new stranger.

"The dose was too strong. I'll have to dilute the serum again."

"We're running out of time, Doctor Crane. I've just had a call from my lawyers…"

The woman watched as they walked away, seemingly having forgotten about her. She struggled to move again. She didn't want to die. But her body wasn't listening to her.

As Crane and the Black Mask headed back to the lab, the woman's heart slowly stuttered to a stop. Neither man looked back.

* * *

"And in other news, rumours of a long lost Sionis heir has been circulating throughout the city. Gabby Wells with more…"

Monroe tuned out the rest of the news report and concentrated instead on shovelling her butter and honey soaked pancakes into her mouth. She paused to gulp down half her orange juice, poured more honey over her pancakes, and proceeded to practically inhale them. Frankie stared at her, incredulously.

"What?" Monroe snapped, around a mouthful of buttery goodness.

Frankie shook his head.

"Uh…nothing."

The diner's only waitress came back around the counter, called out three different orders into the kitchen, and turned to face them with a coffee pot in hand and a tired smile.

"Want a refill on that juice, hun?" The waitress asked, her Southern twang strangely comforting despite its incongruity in a city like Gotham.

"Oh, yes please!"

"What about you, sugar?" she asked, picking up Monroe's empty glass and nodding at Frankie.

"Um…no. I'm good."

"Ooh! What kind of pie is that?" asked Monroe, pointing at the covered cake stand on the other end of the counter.

"That's pecan, hun. Want a slice?"

Monroe nodded enthusiastically, as she demolished the rest of her pancakes. The waitress laughed.

"That's some appetite. Nice to see a girl who appreciates good food. You should stick around. We do a pretty decent lunch."

Monroe was sorely tempted to do just that.

Frankie's eyes widened when they were finally presented with the bill. Had they really eaten that much? The Ghost was tiny. Where did she put it all?

Monroe didn't even blink an eye. Whipping out a monogrammed patent leather wallet, she pulled out several bills and included a ridiculously large tip for the waitress.

"Where'd you get that from?" asked Frankie, eying the wallet suspiciously.

Monroe rolled her eyes.

"Do I really need to answer that? Now be a dear and grab those will you?"

Monroe left before Frankie could protest, leaving him to carry the numerous takeaway bags on his own. Once outside the diner, Monroe stopped just long enough to drop the wallet down a drain before turning back towards the church.

Today was a good day. Her gunshot wound was healing nicely. The pain was still there but she was barely limping now. She'd eaten food that was _not_ pizza. And they'd made their first move. All of Roman Sionis' accounts were frozen. Now all that there was left to do was wait.

Monroe smirked, hearing Frankie grumbling under his breath as he trailed behind her.

Somehow, the man had become her unofficial guard of sorts. Frankie followed her wherever she went. Hell, he'd follow her into the bathroom if she didn't threaten to physically maim him. Monroe knew the Joker didn't really trust her. To be honest, she couldn't blame him. But that didn't mean she'd simply put up with having a babysitter. Frankie would just have to suck it up.

It was quiet when they got back to the church. Most of the men were absent, and those who were there kept shooting the door to the bell tower nervous glances. Frankie dumped the food on a broken pew.

"The Boss?"

"He's in one of his moods," a goon replied, digging into the bags for one of the Styrofoam cups of coffee. "Where's the sugar?"

"It's in there somewhere," Monroe said absently, waving her hand at the bags. "What's wrong now? I thought he'd be happy."

"The Boss is never happy," Frankie muttered.

Monroe sighed in exasperation, and snatched up one of the takeout bags. The others watched her warily as she approached the door to the bell tower, once again questioning her sanity, though no one made a move to stop her.

She could see why no one wanted to go up after the Joker; aside from being terrified of him, the wooden stairs that led up to the tower were termite infested and on the verge of collapsing at any minute. She was surprised it was even capable of holding her weight. It was a good thing Monroe wasn't afraid of heights.

One of the first things Monroe noticed was the view. The church was situated in the middle of the Narrows, surrounded by apartment buildings that would have been condemned had they been in any other part of the city. At street level, this particular neighbourhood, like most of the Narrows, was a mess. But from up in that bell tower, the Narrows actually looked beautiful. It was broken and damaged and in no way perfect, but it was beautiful just the same.

Leaving the food at the top of the stairs, Monroe walked towards the old cast iron bell that was just barely clinging on to the rotted rafters – yet another reason why no one should be up there. As Monroe reached out towards the bell, a sudden sharp pressure at her throat stilled her hand. The smell of smoke, sweat and gasoline enveloped her. She heard the clicking of a tongue and then felt a warm breath ghosting against the back of her neck.

"What do you think you're doing?" came the nasal, slow, drawl.

"How come every conversation we have ends up with you pulling a knife on me?" Monroe retorted.

A low chuckle sounded just by her ear. Then the knife disappeared and the Joker was walking around to the other side of the church bell. He couldn't have been in that foul a mood if he was willing to let her go without drawing blood. Then again, the thought of an almost merciful and charitable Joker put her on edge. Monroe jerked her head at the takeout bag.

"Brought you breakfast."

"Not hungry," the Joker grunted, reminding Monroe of a little boy throwing a tantrum.

He hopped onto one of the arched windows, leaning precariously over the edge with only his left hand on the support pillar preventing him from falling to his death. Monroe had the sudden urge to come up behind him and give him a shove, just to see what happened. As if reading her mind, his right hand swung around, pointing the butterfly knife at her. Monroe frowned as she realised it was her own blade.

"I'm bored," he complained, dragging out the word and placing heavy emphasis on the 'd'. He sat back on his heels and started playing with the knife, flipping it through a sequence of increasingly elaborate moves. Monroe wondered if anyone looking up at the bell tower from the streets would have simply thought he was a stone gargoyle. "I'm tired of waiting."

"It's only been a day. Boredom's a sign of a weak mind."

Yet even as Monroe said that, she realised that she could feel the familiar itch at the base of her skull that occurred every time she went too long without a job. She must have made some kind of sound for the Joker looked back at her, eyebrow arched. Suddenly, a strange light dawned behind his eyes.

"You're a girl."

Monroe cocked her hip, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.

"It's taken you this long to notice, huh?"

The Joker hissed through his teeth and waved the butterfly knife lazily at her.

"You're not PMS-ing, are you?"

The way the Joker said that, made it seem like a fault Monroe should be ashamed of. The irritation she had been feeling was quickly turning into righteous – and most probably, unreasonable – anger. But before Monroe could utter a single word, the Joker had jumped down from the window ledge and was stalking towards her, with an eager grin stretched across his face.

"Want to go shopping?"

* * *

Shopping, as it turned out, meant a trip down to Home Depot. Monroe wasn't sure why this surprised her, but it did. At the moment, the Joker was literally running through the electrical aisle, leaving Monroe to push the orange shopping cart on her own. And no one was paying him the least bit of attention.

The Joker had flown down the stairs of the bell tower after extending Monroe the rather unexpected invitation, leaving her to trail behind him. His men had started when he burst through the door and immediately rose to their feet, coffee cups and eating utensils in hand. If Monroe hadn't been so confused herself, she would have found the sight hilarious.

The Joker had then locked himself in the old church's only bathroom for forty-five minutes and when he finally emerged, there wasn't a scrap of makeup on his face and he had washed most of the green dye out of his hair. His goons looked to Monroe for an explanation but all she could do was shrug her shoulders in response before he demanded Frankie hand over the keys to the ice cream truck.

Monroe had spoke up in protest then, trying to convince the Joker that taking the ice cream truck out on a shopping trip was not the best idea. He had stared blankly at her for a moment, uncomprehending. In the end, Monroe offered to procure him an alternative means of transport.

That in itself had proved to be easier said than done. Who would have known that the Joker could be so picky? By the time he finally approved of a car, Monroe was almost ready to just let him take the ice cream truck. A quick stop at a Salvation Army clothing donation bin to pick out clothes that were less distinctive than his trademark green and purple suit and they were ready for their shopping spree. Without his trademark oil paints and with his hair hanging like a greasy curtain in front of his face, the man was hardly recognisable. A little sleazy looking maybe, but certainly not fear inducing.

"Need any help?"

Monroe blinked, coming out of her musings to find a friendly stock girl smiling at her. The girl had to still be in high school and was probably new on the job – her enthusiasm and eagerness to help actually appeared genuine. Monroe returned her smile and was about to politely decline the girl's offer of assistance when a loud crash distracted her and caught the attention of everyone else in that aisle. Monroe looked up and groaned. The stock girl looked back at her, wide eyed.

"Do you know him?"

For some reason, the Joker had decided he needed something from one of the higher shelves, just out of his reach. However, instead of asking one of the stockers for help, he had climbed the shelves himself. He must have pulled something out from the bottom of a stack because the neatly arranged products collapsed in on themselves, sending several wrapped coils and spools of wire and cable tumbling to the ground.

"Never met him before."

With that, Monroe turned the cart around and walked out of the aisle, keeping her head down and ignoring the father with the pram who was staring at the Joker in amusement. She wandering aimlessly through Home Depot until the Joker finally found her in the toilet seat aisle. He must have stopped off in the plumbing section as well, as he had several lengths of galvanised steel pipe and a bag of caps with him, along with the multi-coloured spools of electrical wire; all of which he dumped into the shopping cart, which already held two bottles of gasoline from the outdoor aisle, a couple of electric timers, about five packets of large alkaline batteries and a soldering iron kit. She wondered how he had even balanced everything in his hands to begin with. It didn't take a genius to figure out what he was planning on building.

"What are you blowing up this time?" asked Monroe distractedly. Who knew there were so many toilet seat options?

The Joker leaned in close over the cart until Monroe could feel her eyes start to cross. And then he reached out and flicked the end of her nose.

"That would be telling."

Monroe reared back. The Joker pointed at her, cackling.

"You should see your face!"

Face twisting in annoyance, Monroe slapped his hand away. The Joker's laughter cut off abruptly, the mirth behind his eyes suddenly replaced by cold steel. He rolled his wrist, an almost unconscious gesture, as he stared Monroe down from across the shopping cart. The silence stretched on uncomfortably and she almost wished he would say something. Instead, he turned on his heels and marched away from her. Monroe released the breath she hadn't even realised she'd been holding.

Sometimes she tended to do the stupidest things.

They did not stay long after that. Neither spoke a word to each other as they finished up their little shopping trip, even as they lined up to pay for their items – pay being a relative term when they were using a stolen credit card. The line for the cashier wasn't long, but after only a minute of waiting, the Joker was starting to fidget. Pulling out his cell phone, he typed out a brief message, tapped his fingers against the screen, and then sent out a longer one. Another minute and two more texts later, the Joker turned to Monroe.

"Handle this," he ordered gruffly, pushing his way past the people in the line and walking out into the parking lot.

Monroe stared at his retreating back. He had to be pretty pissed off to order her around like one of his goons. She decided it was best not to push her luck and just do as he ordered. By the time she exited Home Depot, the Joker was leaning against their 'borrowed' car, having a rather heated conversation with whoever was on the other end of the line.

"Yes! Vinegar and baking soda! Just get it done!" he barked as she unlocked the trunk and proceeded to transfer the plastic bags from the cart into the car. As she loaded the last bag into the trunk, slamming it shut, Monroe heard the engine start up.

"Hey!" she yelled. But the Joker was already pulling out of their parking space. Monroe watched as he drove away, leaving her behind. "What the hell!"

"You should dump his ass, honey."

Monroe turned to see a dumpy looking homeless woman watching her, pushing her own overloaded and rickety shopping cart. She was wearing a faded taffeta dress and had a ridiculously large sun hat perched atop her head.

"We're not…" she began, but the other woman was already walking away, humming to herself.

Monroe sighed. The Joker had to be even angrier than she originally thought. Though she wondered why, if he was so mad at her, he hadn't just shot her. She knew he had a gun stuffed down one of his pockets. Not to mention the dozen or so knives he always kept hidden on his person.

Shoving her hands in her pocket, Monroe started walking out of the parking lot, resigned to having to find her own way back. She briefly wondered if their little spat meant an end to her partnership with the Joker but quickly came to the conclusion that the very fact that she was still breathing had to be a good sigh and that he just needed some time to cool off. A little bribery wouldn't hurt either, she decided with a smile as she looked around the lot. That always worked whenever Aiden was mad at her. After all, boys did so very much like their toys.

* * *

Frankie Keller was not having a good day.

He had gotten a strange phone call from the Boss a few hours ago, instructing him to buy – of all things – vinegar, baking soda and baby food; jar upon jar of baby food. While at the store, he had run into a friend of his mother's who cornered him into a long and rather awkward conversation. In between gushing about her eldest son who had recently been accepted into the police academy, and dredging up embarrassing childhood memories, she had berated him for not inviting her to his wedding and asked how his wife was coping with the baby and if it was their first. He then had to explain that he was _not_ married and that the baby food he was buying was for a friend. She had given him a long, piercing look at that before smiling stiffly and asking him to send her regards to his mother.

When he finally returned from running that little errand, it was to find the Boss had come back from his own shopping trip without the Ghost. No one seemed to dare ask what had happened to the woman and the Boss appeared to be in a worse mood than he had been in that morning. Everyone gave him a wide berth as he commandeered most of the church's floor space and began constructing a series of pipe bombs, muttering angrily to himself the entire while.

And to top it all off, the pizza they had ordered for lunch was soggy and tasted foul.

The roar of a motorcycle engine caught Frankie's attention. The bike sounded like it was pulling up outside the church and his hand crept towards his TEC-9 that lay beside him. In an area like the Narrows, unexpected guests were never a good sign. The Boss didn't even look up from where he was pouring vinegar into an emptied out baby food jar. A minute later, the Ghost strolled through the church's front doors, a self-satisfied smirk on her face and a set of keys dangling from her fingers. The young woman paused to take in the scene before her, before walking determinedly towards the Boss.

Folding her legs underneath her, she sat down in front of the Boss, watching him carefully lower the vinegar filled jar into one of the steel pipes. Neither said a word. She simply sat there and watched him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Frankie could see some of the others discretely making their way towards the closest exits. Someone tapped him on the shoulder and then tugged on his jacket sleeve.

"Come on, man. Trust me, you don't want to be here when those things go off."

Frankie reluctantly got up, cast one last look at the Boss and the Ghost and followed the others out of the church.

Monroe heard more than saw the Joker's men leave. She didn't blame them. Sitting this close to someone making pipe bombs was never a good idea. She placed the keys on the ground and slid them across to the Joker.

"Got you something."

The Joker picked up the soldering iron and began welding a steel cap onto the pipe, never once looking up from his work. When he was done, he placed the completed pipe bomb to one side and began playing lazily with the soldering iron.

"You suck at apologising," he finally said.

"You should never say you're sorry – " Monroe retorted.

" – It's a sign of weakness," he completed.

The Joker regarded her with narrowed eyes. Monroe stared right back at him. He rolled the soldering iron from hand to hand, coming dangerously close to setting his clothes on fire at several points. And then he let out a long hiss of annoyance.

"I don't think we're going to work."

Monroe kept silent, simply arching a brow at his sudden declaration.

"We're solitary creatures, you and I. And I don't play nice with others."

"If I wanted nice, I would have gone to the Batman," Monroe scoffed.

The Joker chuckled.

"Well, he's not very nice either. Not really."

"Not when you push his buttons just right," Monroe agreed with a dark smile. "I don't do nice. Don't know how."

The Joker shook his head, pointing the soldering iron at her.

"You say that, but you don't really mean it. You care," he accused, lips snarling. "You say you don't, but you do." He nudged the keys. "You wouldn't have done this if you didn't."

Monroe ground her teeth, unsure of what to say. The Joker leaned back, finally setting the soldering iron aside.

"You have limits," he continued. "Lines you're not going to cross. I can see it in your eyes."

"What makes you think that?"

The Joker suddenly darted forward, invading Monroe's personal space. She had to force herself to hold her ground and not move back.

"Have you ever held a gun to a kid's head, looking into their eyes while they begged for mercy?"

Monroe clenched her jaw, meeting the Joker's crazed glare straight on.

"Have you?"

The Joker blinked. He was so close Monroe could make out the flecks of gold in his dark brown eyes. He had repainted his face and she could see where the oil paints were starting to settle in the creases of his skin. She had never really thought about it before, but he was actually quite young – maybe a few years older than herself. Had he ever killed a kid? Monroe suddenly realised she didn't want to know.

A slow, predatory grin spread across the painted face.

"Has anyone ever told you you're crazy?" he asked, sounding ridiculously pleased with himself.

And then he got up, picked up the keys and headed towards the church's front doors.

"Let's go see what you got me."

* * *

Sunlight streamed through a window of a small duplex in Wanaka, New Zealand, illuminating a quaint little open plan kitchen. A slightly overweight tabby sat on the kitchen counter, sunning itself. Suddenly, it lifted its head, nose twitching. A thin plume of black smoke spiralled up from the toaster. Five minutes later, the fire alarms went off.

Aiden Walker swore as he ran into the kitchen, only to run back out to punch in the code that disarmed the fire alarms into a keypad in the entrance hall. With that done, he hurried back to the kitchen and yanked the toaster's power cord out of the wall. Grabbing a fork from the sink that was more or less clean, Aiden poked at the remains of his toast stuck inside the toaster.

"Damn it!"

The cat meowed unsympathetically.

Tossing the fork back into the sink, Aiden made his way into the living room where his laptop sat, idling. He keyed in his password and, in less than two minutes, hacked his way into the Queenstown-Lakes District Fire Department's alert system, redirecting his fire alarm's signal so that it appeared to come from one of the many small cabins on the outskirts of town.

The last thing he needed was a visit from the fire department.

It had been over a week since he had received Monroe's message on one of the lesser-used pirate radio channels. He had made sure his parents were safely out of the country, on the pretence that he wanted to give them a second honeymoon, before booking a ticket on the first plane heading to Europe. He had bounced from Frankfurt, to Oslo, to Minsk, and then flown down to Istanbul, transferred to Cairo before flying across Asia to Hanoi and ended up in Wellington where he rented a car and drove down to the Southern island. He had only been in Wanaka for a day and already he was in danger of drawing unwanted attention to himself. He had no idea how Monroe did it.

The local man Aiden was renting his room from seemed nice enough and was used to Americans coming into town for short periods of time, especially during the skiing season. His cat though, was another matter altogether.

Aiden swore again as a loud crash sounded from the kitchen. The stupid animal had knocked the toaster off the counter. It looked down at the kitchen appliance and then up at Aiden, before proceeding to groom itself.

"You did that on purpose."

Aiden started to get up when the doorbell rang. He froze. He knew it was unlikely that he'd been followed all the way across the globe but he had no idea how much trouble Monroe was in, let alone how powerful the people she had pissed off were. Reaching underneath the sofa, Aiden pulled out the homemade pipe gun he had hurriedly constructed the night before.

The doorbell rang again.

Aiden approached the door. Should he look in the peephole? He'd seen Léon: The Professional; he knew what could happen if the guy on the other side had a gun.

The doorbell rang again.

Aiden moved to the window, ducking down to keep out of sight. Nudging the curtain out of the way, he peered outside to see a well-dressed older man standing at the front door. He certainly didn't look like he was carrying a gun. Then again, looks could be deceiving.

A loud throaty rumble sounded from near his feet. Aiden looked down to see the cat rubbing itself against his leg. He stared at it, incredulously.

"Now you decide to be friendly?"

Shaking his head, Aiden looked up again only to see the other man standing just outside the window, smiling at him. Aiden swore violently, tripping over the cat in his hurry to get up.

"Stupid cat!"

The stranger tapped on the glass and waved at him. And then he pointed at the front door. Aiden tightened his grip on the pipe gun, attempted a few calming breaths, and went to answer the door.

The man smiled warmly at him the moment he opened the door. He appeared not to notice the length of pipe Aiden held in his hands. He was not carrying a gun.

"Hello," the man greeted genially. "Sorry to disturb you, but I'm looking for Aiden Walker. Would you happen to know where he is?"

Aiden narrowed his eyes.

"Who are you?"

The stranger ignored Aiden's rudeness, pulling out a business card from his pocket and handing it to him with yet another smile. He watched as Aiden scanned the card and then held out his hand.

"Lucius Fox. At your service."

* * *

**EDIT: Yes, the ingredients the Joker uses are actual ingredients for a pipe bomb. DO NOT TRY MAKING THEM AT HOME! It's dangerous and stupid. That is all.**

**A/N: And Aiden returns for a short cameo. I actually really like his character.**

**So…I found out that the Leverage episode that's airing on Christmas will be the last episode ever since it's getting cancelled. Nnnnnnnoooooooooooo! Whhhhhhhyyy? They always cancel my favourite TV shows.**

**I thought about making this chapter more Christmas orientated, but realised it wasn't going to work. I'm not one of those authors who plans chapters way in advance to coincide with public holidays or special occasions like Valentines, Thanksgiving or Christmas. So…fail. But really, can you see the Joker and Monroe gather around a Christmas tree, exchanging presents, drinking eggnog and singing carols?**

**Random info:**

**A butterfly knife is also called a balisong.**

**Hope you guys have a great Christmas and an awesome New Year!**

**Love,**

**Scribbles**


	13. 12

**A/N: I'd apologise for the long wait but I'm sensing a pattern here. The year started out bad - too many funerals and more than my fair share of bad news - so I really wasn't inspired to write. Hopefully this was worth the wait.**

**EDIT: Typed the last quarter of this chapter in NYC. It's a beautiful city. The entire time I've been here my friends kept telling me I should move here. Honestly, the idea's never really appealed to me (I know - and actor who doesn't want to live in NY? Sacrilege!) But then I went to Central Park yesterday...I'd move here just for that park...anyway, I'll post this once I have wifi.**

**Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter: WonderfulWhy, EverybodyLovesMe15, LizM and iwishtheskywasgreen. I really appreciate it. Thanks also go out to everyone who added this to their favourites or alerts list.**

**DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize belongs to DC Comics and Christopher Nolan. Everything else is mine.**

* * *

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi  
_"Thus passes the glory of the world"_

By Scribbles-Dementia

12

* * *

As far as she could remember, Monroe only had one _truly_ happy memory. She had just turned sixteen and, for the first time ever, was settling down with an actual family. Parker and Maia Monroe were a couple in their late forties. A miscarriage early on in their marriage prevented Maia from having children of her own. But that didn't stop the Monroes from treating her as if she were their flesh and blood. Monroe had not understood it at the time. She certainly hadn't deserved their kindness.  
Their first meeting had been far from pleasant. Two years had passed since Monroe ran away from her last foster home and she had fallen in with a car jacking gang. They treated her like crap but at least they provided some sort of protection. And she got to drive expensive cars at breakneck speeds.  
It had been around one in the morning and the Monroes were on their way home from a church prayer meeting. As they stopped at an intersection, two motorcycles suddenly pulled up beside their car, one on each side. The next thing they knew, Parker and Maia were both looking down the barrel of a gun.  
Monroe had been riding behind one of the gunmen. She scrambled off and made for the driver's side door as he ordered the Monroes to get out of the car. The gang had a nice routine going; their marks usually did as they were told, fearing for their lives. But Parker Monroe was different. He stared down the other man and said, simply, 'no'.  
Monroe jerked to a stop, staring incredulously at the man. And then she realized the awkward position she was in. She had gotten so comfortable with their routine that she hadn't even noticed the danger she was putting herself in by getting between the gun and their mark.  
It happened so fast. The gunman pulled the trigger the very second Monroe stopped short of the car door. A searing pain flared up in her right arm at the exact moment she heard glass shattering and Maia Monroe screamed. The other gunman was swearing up a storm. She heard a car door opening, and then another, and suddenly found herself staring up at worried blue eyes. She couldn't even remember collapsing, but she must have because she could feel asphalt against her back. The couple – their marks – were hovering over her, the woman applying pressure to her arm. She heard both bike engines start up, could just make out the argument her fellow gang members were having over the roar of the engines, and then they were took off into the night; leaving her behind, along with the car and their marks.  
What happened next had been even more confusing. Before Monroe could even think of running away, the couple had bundled her into their car and driven her to the nearest hospital. As it turned out, the bullet had just grazed her. By some miracle, it had completely missed both Parker and Maia. The Monroes stayed with her as the doctor stitched her up. She saw the way their eyes quietly took in the older scars on her body. For the first time in a long while, Monroe felt ashamed.  
The police arrived just as the doctor was putting in the last stitch. They bombarded her with questions about the shooting, asking her if she had gotten a glimpse of her shooter. Not once did they ask what she had been doing at that intersection in the first place. She was discharged a couple of hours later and found herself standing outside the hospital with Maia Monroe as her husband went to get the car. The woman asked her if she would like a ride home, and before Monroe could stop herself, the truth slipped from her lips and she told her that she was a street kid.  
Maia Monroe regarded her for a long, uncomfortable moment, looked up at the sky, wrapped her coat tighter around herself as a strong wind blew up around them, and then said, "Looks like it's going to rain. We've got a spare room if you need somewhere to spend the night."  
Monroe stared at the woman in disbelief. Her husband pulled up in front of them and Maia walked up to the passenger side door, pausing with her hand on the handle.  
"Are you coming?"  
Monroe looked at the couple and absentmindedly scratched at her bandaged arm. The thunderclap that sounded overhead was what made her make her decision. She opened for the car door and slipped into the back seat. Maia smiled at her through the rearview mirror.  
Somehow, one night became two, two became three, and before she knew it she had been with the Monroes for six months. They talked her into enrolling at the local high school at the two month mark and though she had been apprehensive about it at first, she found herself enjoying school, joining the track team and gymnastics squad, and actually making friends – friends who accepted the fact that she could sometimes be ridiculously socially awkward and didn't question why she wore long sleeved and high collared tops even in the middle of summer. The Monroes made her attend church as well – that was harder to get used to. But the fact that the church they attended leaned more towards loving thy neighbour instead of hellfire and damnation made it easier for her to sit through services. After five months, the Monroes asked her to officially be a part of their family and, before she knew it, they were filing adoption papers.  
With that, came the issue of her legal name. They had tracked down her birth certificate only to discover that her birth parents had never given her a proper name – that and the fact that she'd been abandoned in a rubbish dump behind a hospital just hours after her birth. There were at least twenty other names in her legal records, given to her by the numerous foster families she'd been foisted on, none of which were all that flattering. Sitting there in the Monroes' living room as they poured over her files was one of the most embarrassing moments in her life. But Maia Monroe had simply taken her by the hand and told her to see it as a chance to reinvent herself. Together, they picked out a new name for her; one to constantly remind her that she was 'wished for'; that she finally belonged. That exact moment was _the_ happiest memory she had.  
Things had never been better. For once she was living a life that was actually…normal.  
She should have known it was too good to last.  
Monroe stared determinedly out the window as they pulled up in front of her high school. She heard Parker sigh as he turned off the ignition. Maia turned around in her seat to smile back at her encouragingly. For a moment, none of them said anything. Monroe clenched her fists in her lap.  
She had to hand it to them; the Monroes sure were good at laying on the guilt trip. After a full minute, she finally broke down.  
"Mum…Dad…" It still felt odd calling them that. The adoption papers still weren't final. So, technically, the Monroes weren't her parents yet. But they had insisted she at least try calling them that and she knew that it made them smile every time she did so, even though they tried to hide it. "I swear it wasn't my fault. She started it!"  
Parker pinched the bridge of his nose.  
"I don't care who started it. You ended it when you punched her."  
"The bitch deserved it," she muttered.  
"Language!" Maia admonished.  
"Sorry," Monroe replied automatically.  
Parker sighed again.  
"We're going to go in there and sort things out with your principal. You're going to apologise to that girl and you'll accept whatever number of detentions you're given. There are other – better – ways of resolving problems instead of resorting to your fists."  
Monroe nodded mutely. She didn't trust herself not to say something stupid and she really didn't like upsetting the Monroes.  
As they made their way towards the school, she saw some of her friends sitting under a tree, laughing about something. Alexis, a tiny little blonde, looked up as they walked past and hurried over to fall in step with them.  
"Morning, Mr. Monroe. Mrs. Monroe," she greeted cheerfully.  
"Good morning, Alexis," replied Maia with her trademark friendly smile. "I trust you're well today?"  
"Just peachy." She cut a curious glance at Monroe who simply rolled her eyes. "This isn't about Mindy, is it? Because Ev – "  
Monroe cut her off by placing a hand on her arm.  
"Just drop it, Lex."  
Alexis arched a brow in silent question but did as her friend requested. She followed them as far as the main office before bidding them goodbye, discreetly flashing Monroe two thumbs up and mouthing 'Good luck' while her parents were busying talking to the secretary.  
Monroe had only been sent to the principal's office twice before, both times for what her parents deemed 'unnecessary violence'. She could see Mindy Vaux sitting with her parents in the waiting area outside the principal's office. Somehow, even with the broken nose she was sporting, Mindy managed to smirk smugly at her. Monroe returned the smirk and tapped the side of her nose. Mindy scowled.  
The girl really had deserved it. Monroe had found out the week before that Mindy had been getting one of her friends to do all her homework. Normally, this wouldn't quite warrant a broken nose. Heck, she and Alexis were known for writing other people's essays for the low, low price of twenty dollars a paper. But Mindy wasn't paying their friend; she was blackmailing him. And when Monroe and Alexis had confronted her about it, she had laughed it off and tried to intimidate her by bringing up her adoption. Mindy was lucky she only broke her nose.  
Monroe looked up as someone ran past the main office's large picture window. Mrs. Severn, the office secretary excused herself from the conversation she was having with her parents to stick her head out the door, glaring disapprovingly after the rule breaking teen.  
"No running in the halls!"  
As soon as the words left her mouth, two more boys ran by, shouting something barely intelligible. Mrs. Severn frowned in disapproval. Monroe felt like saying something along the lines of 'Boys will be boys', but she didn't think Mrs. Severn would appreciate that. The stern, elderly woman was about to turn back to her desk when another group of teens ran by.  
"That's it!" she barked. "What's going on out there?"  
Just then, the door to the principal's office opened. Mr. Montgomery stood in the doorway, arms crossed, looking disapprovingly over his glasses at the two girls waiting outside.  
"Miss Vaux. Miss Monroe. If you would – "  
But he never got to finish his sentence. A shrill scream echoed down the hall outside, followed by the sound of machine gun fire, and suddenly the office was filled with flying glass as the picture window exploded and Mrs. Severn collapsed like a marionette whose strings had been cut.  
Mindy screamed. Monroe had hit the floor the moment she heard the familiar repetitive rat-a-tat of the machine gun. Any street kid knew to make themselves scarce when they heard that. She raised her head, breathing hard. She could feel the familiar tingling of adrenaline being pumped into her system.  
"Maia!"  
Monroe's head snapped to the side at her dad's anguished cry. He was kneeling on the tiled floor, seemingly oblivious of the continued gunshots outside the main office. Her mum lay next to him, not moving. Monroe could see a rapidly growing pool of blood spreading out under her. Forcing herself to move, Monroe crawled towards her parents. Her dad had his hands over two separate gunshot wounds in his wife's chest.  
"Mum?" she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.  
She could tell, from where the bullets had struck, that her mum was gone. Outside in the hall, someone else screamed. Everything had happened in just a few seconds and the shooter was still getting closer and closer to the office. Monroe grabbed her dad's arm and tried to pull him away.  
"Dad, we have to move. Now!"  
Out of the corner of her eyes, she could see Mindy and her parents cowering in a corner, uninjured. She swallowed the sudden flare of anger that particular sight brought on and bodily dragged her dad behind Mrs. Severn's desk. There was no time to grieve, not if they wanted to live.  
"We can't just leave your mother out there! We've go to call the police! We've got to – "  
Monroe slapped her dad, hard.  
"She's gone, dad! If you go back out there, chances are you'll get shot too!"  
They stared at each other. There was a wild look in her dad's eyes that she had never seen before. Parker Monroe was a strong man, mentally and emotionally. And he was on the verge of cracking. Monroe couldn't let that happen. Not now.  
"Please…just…stay down."  
He nodded numbly. She smiled weakly.  
The heavy thud of boots on tile wiped the smile off her face. There was nothing panicked about the footsteps. They were even – determined. The shooter was in the office.  
Monroe carefully peered around the desk to see a senior she recognized as Zared Gershom. Alexis' older sister had gone out on a couple of dates with him the previous year. He was a bit of a loner and Monroe knew he didn't exactly get on well with his classmates. But she would never have seen this coming.  
She watched as he stood in the middle of the office, a submachine gun hanging carelessly by his side. He kicked Mrs. Severn's corpse, ignored her mother's body and slowly stalked towards where the Vauxes were trying to hide. Monroe tore her eyes away from the cowering family to quickly survey her surroundings. There was an open window a mere seven feet away from where she and her dad were hiding. They were on the first floor so it was a viable escape route. The only problem was they would have to run across open space, with nothing to hide behind, in order to get to that window.  
A sudden burst of gunfire brought Monroe's attention back to Zared and the Vauxes. He had shot Mindy's parents and was now standing over the girl, gun held to her head, watching her as she begged for her life. There was not a hint of emotion on his face. He just stared at her.  
Monroe looked back at her dad to see him watching the scene as well. At some point he had taken out his cellphone and had dialed 911. Her eyes widened as she realized that he was actually going to try to tell the police operator what was happening. She put her finger to her lips, silently begging him to remain quiet.  
More gunfire distracted her, and she turned around just in time to see Mindy's lifeless body crumble to the floor. Zared looked up, dull eyes locked on the door of Mr. Montgomery's office.  
And then the 911 call connected.  
"Hello, 911. What's your emergency?"  
The disembodied voice sounded unnaturally loud. Monroe ducked but not before Zared caught sight of her.  
"Run."  
Monroe whipped around to face her dad. He jerked his head at the open window.  
"Run," he repeated, his voice a harsh whisper.  
She shook her head.  
"Not without you."  
He smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.  
"I'll be right behind you."  
They could hear Zared getting closer. Monroe squeezed her eyes shut and took a deep breath. It did nothing to calm her nerves.  
"Go!" her dad hissed.  
Monroe fully expected to get shot. As she pushed herself off the floor and ran towards the window, she really wasn't expecting to make it. But no gunshots followed her, no angry yells. Instead, she saw a blur out of the corner of her eyes as her dad side tackled Zared. It was enough to make her stop short of the window as she stared at the sight before her in disbelief.  
"Dad!"  
"Run!"  
Monroe hesitated. This was crazy. She couldn't leave her dad behind.  
"Da – "  
The explosive crack of gunfire cut her off. She watched as her dad jerked strangely, spots of vivid red blossoming on the back of his shirt.  
"NO!"  
The scream that ripped from her throat did not sound human. She watched numbly as Zared attempted to push her dad off of him. And in that moment, something inside her broke.  
Snatching a letter opener off Mrs. Severn's desk, Monroe launched herself at Zared. Grabbing hold of his arm as he still struggled with the weight of her dad's body, she used her momentum to swing herself around so that she ended up behind him. And then she brought the metal letter opener up and plunged it into his ear.  
She followed him down as his knees suddenly buckled and he fell to the ground, ripping the letter opener from his ear only to stab it into his throat, his eyes, his chest. The arterial spray caught her across the face, but she did not stop. She did not stop until long after his heart had ceased to beat. Her arms felt heavy when she finally pushed herself off Zared's already cooling corpse, the bloody letter opener slipping through her fingers.  
She felt sick. She had done a lot of things to get by whilst living on the streets, but she had never killed anyone before. Scrambling over to a wastebasket, she threw up, heaving and retching until all there was left was the bitter taste of bile in her mouth.  
It was over. Her parents were dead. There was nothing left for her here. So, Monroe did what she always did best.  
She ran.

* * *

'_Have you ever held a gun to a kid's head, looking into their eyes while they begged for mercy?'_  
They rode for hours, through the Narrows, into the city, with no real destination in mind. The sun had long since set, giving way to night. They stopped once for gas, which Monroe paid for with some poor schmuck's credit card. The entire time Monroe sat behind the Joker on the bike; her arms around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder – thinking.  
She didn't do that a lot, she realized. Think. Usually, she acted on whatever impulse came over her. Her decision to stay in Gotham, giving Matthew Owens that music box, stopping Bader from pounding the Joker into so much mince meat, blowing up the Black Mask's headquarters, allying herself with the Joker. Punching Mindy Vaux in the nose. Oh, she could take the time to systematically plan and think through every single detail of a break-in or heist. She was pedantic when it came to things like that, weighing the pros and cons before she did anything. It was one of the reasons why she had never been caught before.  
But when it came to the things that really mattered, anything that had any sort of emotional weight behind it; she didn't think. She just…did. It was what got her into trouble. It was what got people killed: Matthew Owens; that pervert, Hill; Teddy and his entire family…Zared…her mum…her dad.  
'_You care. You say you don't, but you do.'_  
Caring sucked. Sometimes she wished she could just turn it all off – be tougher – like the Joker.  
Her eyes flicked up, staring at his profile. Neither of them wore helmets. They were travelling at least thirty miles over the speed limit and they were drafting the eighteen-wheeler in front of them. It was suicidal. If the truck were to suddenly brake, they'd die.  
The man wasn't all there. But he could teach her.  
'_You have limits. Lines you're not going to cross.'_  
He could teach her to be like him. No lines. No limits.  
Free.  
The Joker abruptly swerved out from behind the eighteen-wheeler, forcing Monroe to tighten her grip around his waist. He cackled as he drifted across the road's centerline, ignoring the blaring horn of an oncoming SUV. Monroe inhaled sharply. He wasn't slowing down. Whooping with glee, he made a sharp turn down a side street at the last possible second. They drove for another fifteen minutes before finally pulling up in front of a sprawling red brick building. The monument sign on the front lawn read, "**Gotham County High School**".  
Monroe frowned.  
The Joker had all but run across the slightly overgrown lawn, his long legs covering the distance in seemingly no time at all. He stood at the top of the front steps now, shaking the door.  
"What are we doing here?"  
"Reconnaissance," he threw over his shoulder, taking a step back from the locked double doors; craning his head as he looked around for another means of entering the building.  
Monroe hesitated before following him up the front stairs to the school's main doors. Removing two pins from her hair, she straightened them into makeshift lock picks. Five seconds later, they were inside. She hesitated again just inside the entrance; watching the Joker stroll casually down the hall, loudly whistling a nonsensical tune.  
It was the first time Monroe had stepped foot inside a school since she was sixteen. This one looked different, yet strangely familiar. Maybe all high schools sort of looked the same. She wouldn't know. She'd only ever been to one. Her gut twisted in apprehension as she forced herself to follow after the Joker.  
"What are we doing here?" she hissed again.  
"Patience is a virtue," he sang, practically skipping round a corner.  
All they seemed to be doing was wander aimlessly around the school, stopping every now and then in a random corner or by a pillar plastered with posters and flyers. It was only after this had happened for the fifth time that it all clicked. Every single location they had paused in was a structural point in the building. Monroe stopped dead in her tracks.  
"You're going to blow up the school," she said in disbelief.  
The Joker smiled patronizingly at her, as if she were a rather slow child.  
"Why else do you think we're here?"  
Her fist flew before she even realized she wanted to punch him. It collided with his cheek, not hard enough to throw him off balance but his head did snap to the side with a sickening crack. He retaliated just as suddenly, slamming her bodily into the wall. He followed that up with a blow to the solar plexus that left her gasping for air. She braced herself for another blow as she struggled to get her breath back. But it never came. Instead he stepped back from her, watching with an almost cold detachment as she wheezed and coughed.  
"So that's your line," he finally said. "Kids."  
The Joker flicked his tongue against his hard palette in annoyance, ran a hand through his greasy green hair and then sighed in disappointment.  
"Typical," he scoffed. "You're such a _girl_!" He screamed the last word right by her ear, making her flinch away from him.  
Monroe forced out a bitter laugh, though the effect was ruined by the bout of coughing that brought on.  
"You didn't seem to have such a problem with that when you wanted to go _shopping_ this morning," she spat back at him.  
He boxed her in the ear and she hit the ground hard. As she tried to get her head to stop spinning, he crouched down next to her, just like he had done that night at the docks. The only difference was he hadn't drawn a blade. Yet.  
"You're weak, Ghost," he said softly, almost gently; like a parent trying to comfort a child, except his words were far from comforting. "You don't belong in Gotham. Don't have what it takes to survive here. And this city deserves better."  
Monroe tried to suppress the shudder his words brought on. They sounded almost exactly like what the Black Mask had said to her before he shot Matthew Owens.  
The Joker tilted his head, a strangely birdlike gesture, as he stared at her, unblinkingly. Monroe glared at him from under her lashes. She had gotten her breath back but knew better than to lash out at him again.  
"I can make you better."  
Monroe froze. The Joker's eyes had taken on a strange glazed over look; like he was looking at her but not really _seeing_ her.  
"Make you…_more_."  
More. It was exactly what she wanted…wasn't it? Yet Monroe knew that if she were to accept the Joker's offer he would destroy everything that made her…_her_. Maybe she'd turn out stronger – better – but there would be nothing recognizable left of the person that she used to be.  
No lines.  
No limits.  
It'd be worth it…right?  
She'd travelled the country for years, searching for _something_. Maybe this was it. All she had to do was say yes; follow him, like Alice down the rabbit hole.  
'_There are other - better - ways...'_  
What would her dad say if he could see her now? Her dad who had never once tried to change her, who had rescued her from the streets, given her a home and died so that she could have a chance at life.  
The Joker watched her, oddly patient, waiting on her answer.  
What was Gotham worth to her?  
What was she willing to sacrifice?  
What did she really want?  
That was the real question, wasn't it? What did she want? Monroe wasn't sure she knew. Certainly, there was something about this city that called out to her. Gotham reminded her of those damsels in distress she'd seen in cartoons as a child, sneakily watching the TV when her foster mum or dad were away at work, instead of going to school. But she didn't want to rescue the city. She didn't want to be the princess. She didn't root for the hero. She wanted to see how far the villains could get before someone stopped them.  
Did she want to be that villain? The villain Gotham deserved...  
He was still watching her, his dark eyes strangely warm. And something else - like he could see the internal struggle she was having - but it wasn't care or affection. Whatever it was sent a cold shiver down her back, yet made her want to dive head first down that damned rabbit hole all the same. He grinned a lopsided grin and leaned in so close their noses were almost touching.  
"So what will it be?"

* * *

**Monroe's been toeing this edge for a while. She can't be both a good guy and a bad guy. Time to make a decision. But what will it be? I more or less know what I want her to do but I'd be interested to hear what you guys think.**

**This was uploaded using an iPad so hopefully the format remains the same and doesn't screw up. If it does I'll fix it when I get back to my laptop.**

**Love,  
Scribbles**


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